


The Day The World Ended

by Araine



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Canon-Typical Violence, Dream Sharing, F/M, Implied/Referenced Torture, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Redcliffe, apocalypse future
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-02-28 19:43:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 55,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13278555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Araine/pseuds/Araine
Summary: At Redcliffe, Lavellan and Dorian are sent one year ahead, into a future where Corypheus' victory seems already assured. After learning that returning to their own time may be impossible, they set out on a quest to find allies to help restore their time, if they can at all.One year ago, Ayla Lavellan disappeared along with the Anchor she bore, throwing Solas' plans into chaos. Now he works openly against the threat of Corypheus as Fen'harel. But the Anchor is back in the world, and with it the one who bears its power.





	1. The End

**Author's Note:**

> This work was a long time coming and I hope you all enjoy it. Many thanks to [nayanroo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nayanroo) for rekindling my love for this ship and for faithfully cheerleading me. None of this would exist without her.

“You are a mistake! You should never have existed!” 

Ayla Lavellan stood frozen in shock, as Alexius summoned a wave of power like nothing she had ever felt before and a rift opened up in the great hall. She gripped her staff white-knuckled, pouring power through it in a vain attempt at a shield. It wasn’t going to be enough, and she knew it a few seconds before Alexius unleashed his spell. 

She should have listened to Cullen. She shouldn’t have come to fucking Redcliffe in the first place, never mind that she had Iron Bull and Blackwall and a handful of Inquisition agents to watch her back. Hang the politics, they should have launched her whole damned army once she knew Alexius was conspiring against them. 

“No!” Dorian cried, and threw a spell of his own. 

Existence itself exploded. 

There was nothing like the sensation, falling forward and backward and standing perfectly still all at the same time, the whole world gone around her. It was not like passing through the Fade had been but there was an echo of that sensation in the aching of her right palm. She fell and fell and fell forever…

And hit the stone floor. 

Ayla gasped, breathing hard, the spots in her vision starting to clear. Her ears were ringing, her mark ached. She was elbow-deep in freezing cold water, and all the torches had gone out, and she could faintly hear two pairs of footsteps rushing towards her. 

“Blood of the Elder One!” someone said, and Ayla gripped her staff because-- yep, not friendly, not in the least. “Where’d they come from?” 

She looked up - just in time to see a man in armor raise his sword. Battle instincts kicking in, she summoned a barrier just in time. The air crackled in front of her and the sword that would have taken her head bounced harmlessly to the side. Ayla struggled to her feet. 

A blast of flame engulfed the man and his sword. Ayla spared a look back and saw Dorian, bearing down with his magic. The Venatori screamed and burned. Ayla summoned lightning to her fingertips and threw it at the man. He fell silent. 

Ayla backed up, so that she and Dorian stood shoulder to shoulder. The other mage didn’t hesitate, summoning another blast of flame. The Venatori blocked it with his blade and closed in. Ayla’s barrier faltered, but it gave her enough time to get her staff up. 

She grinned, baring her teeth as he bore down, then summoned more lightning this time directing it down the blade of the Venatori. He yelped and dropped his blade and Dorian rained fire down on him. In moments he was dead. 

Ayla waited a few moments, staff at the ready, in case more were coming. They did not seem to be. She and Dorian were surrounded by stone walls on three sides and iron bars on the other, the only light from the abundance of red lyrium that littered the hallways. Ayla shivered to see so much in one place.

“Displacement,” Dorian mused. “Interesting.” 

Ayla snapped her head around and looked at the other mage. “Do you know what happened? The last thing I remember we were in the castle hall.” 

“Sorry,” Dorian said. “It’s probably not what Alexius intended with that spell. The Rift must have moved us to… what? The closest confluence of arcane energy?” 

Ayla puzzled that out. “So we’re still in the castle?” 

“I believe so. In the dungeons, from the looks of it.” 

Ayla looked around at the abundance of iron bars and grinned. “No, really, I thought we were in the Arlessa’s bedchambers,” she said. She flexed her mark, which still ached faintly, then searched the belts of the dead men for keys. They had them. She affixed the keys to her belt. “We need to get back to our people upstairs.” 

“Agreed,” Dorian said. “Though it doesn’t… make sense.” 

Ayla turned back to Dorian, her stomach dropping. He was staring at the red lyrium like it was a puzzle that needed solving. “Dorian,” she said. “Tell me. If Alexius has any other nasty surprises waiting for us…”

Dorian shook his head. “It’s just a theory, really, but--”

“But what?” 

“The spell that Alexius was trying to do in the hall, I think it was supposed to erase you from time. Make it so that you had never been born, never been at the Temple of Sacred Ashes and never mangled his Elder One’s plan.” 

Alexius had mentioned the Elder One. So had the Venatori rushing into the room. Whatever was the deal with this Elder One, it could not be good. 

“I countered Alexius’ spell,” Dorian continued, stroking his chin and looking puzzled. “But when a spell is countered it doesn’t change the basic parameters of the spell, it either fizzles out or goes awry like Alexius’ did.”

Ayla raised her eyebrow, discarding her worries about the Elder One for more immediate worries. She touched Dorian’s shoulder, drawing him out of his musings. “What does that mean?” 

“It means it doesn’t make sense that we’ve been displaced in space and not in well… time.” Dorian met Ayla’s eyes, apologetic. 

She stared. “We’ve traveled in time?” 

“I don’t know for sure but-- it would explain how so much red lyrium got here so quickly.” 

Ayla shivered, and not because she was soaked from the water on the dungeon floor. “It could have been growing here all along, it’s not like we’ve been to these dungeons before.”

Dorian shook his head. “Without the Arl or someone else noticing? Lyrium is quick growing for a mineral but it’s not that quick.” 

Ayla took a deep breath, still not quite comprehending. They had moved in time-- possibly. Probably. “So if we’ve moved through time how do we get back?” 

“I have some thoughts on that,” Dorian said. “They’re lovely thoughts, like little jewels. Regardless, we need to get out of this dungeon before I can do anything.” 

Ayla nodded, glad to have a course of action to follow. She led the way out of the cell and into the hallway, making sure give the sickly glowing lyrium jutting out of the walls as wide a berth as she could. “Do you think any of the others were pulled through?” she asked. “Blackwall or Iron Bull or one of the Inquistion agents?” 

“It’s doubtful,” Dorian said, following about two steps behind Ayla. “I don’t think the rift was big enough to take more than one or two people. They’re probably still where and when we left them-- in some sense.” 

Ayla nodded. That made sense. She and Dorian had been right up next to Alexius’ magic which meant that they were pulled through. To everyone in that hall it must look like she had disappeared and then--

And then what? What had happened to the Inquistion? What about the rifts all over Thedas, the rift in the sky above? If she just disappeared into thin air, what had happened to them? Was that why the red lyrium had grown so fast, because the rifts hadn’t closed? And what about this Elder One that seemed to be popping up every time she ran into the Venatori?

“Do you know anything about this Elder One?” Ayla asked. “Alexius mentioned him, and so did those guards back there.” 

Dorian shrugged and shook his head. “Not a clue. Leader of the Venatori, I suppose. Some magister aspiring to Godhood. It’s the same old tune-- ‘Let’s play with magic we don’t understand it will make us incredibly powerful!’.” Dorian sneered, contemptuous. “Evidently it doesn’t matter if you rip apart the fabric of time in the process.” 

“Or the fade,” Ayla muttered, mouth twisting, as it always did at mentions of Tevinter magic. That some mage had caused all this because he wanted more power-- it turned her stomach. Her people-- her Keeper-- had always taught that magic was to be respected and used for the good of the clan, and not to rule or lord over others. 

“Exactly,” Dorian said. 

“How can your people live like that?” Ayla wondered, thinking of all the destruction that had been caused in the name of this Elder One. “How can they use magic like that?”

“Powerful men will always seek more power, and if they’re left unchecked they won’t care who they hurt in order to get it,” Dorian said bitterly. “It’s not a disease unique to Tevinter, unfortunately.” 

Ayla sighed, for she knew well enough just what a disease power could be in the hands of the wrong people. It had wreaked havoc on the lives of the Elves, left them scattered in disconnected clans or imprisoned in alienages. It had sparked war between Mages and Templars and led the way to the disaster at the Conclave. 

They continued, creeping up stairs and into another floor of dungeons. Everywhere red lyrium jutted out of the walls, giving on a sickly red glow. Whenever Ayla’s magical senses brushed up against the stuff she felt nauseous, like she was going to be sick. 

In one cell they found a man huddled, singing prayers to Andraste. Ayla fumbled with her stolen keyring and opened his cell door and tried to coax him out, but he didn’t seem to even hear her. Dorian touched Ayla’s shoulder compassionately. 

“Come on,” he said. “The best thing we can do to help him is get back to our original time.” 

Ayla nodded, though she spared one look back to the pitiful man in the cell. When she had looked in his eyes, they had been empty, as if whoever had once lived in his body had departed and left only this shell behind.  
They continued on, keeping an eye out for guards and quickly dispatching the ones that they did find. They did not find many and Ayla was glad of it. They did not have the luxury of leaving any alive to sound the alarm. 

She was panting with exertion when they turned the corner and heard faint singing. It was a jaunty pub tune, out of place in this dank and lyrium filled dungeon. Ayla raised an eyebrow in question at Dorian and he shrugged. 

She crept towards the sound, which echoed off the stone walls.

“Three hundred bottles of beer on the wall, three hundred bottles of beer. Take one down, pass it around, two hundred ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall. Two hundred ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall…”

Ayla frowned, disturbed. The voice was a familiar deep rumble, one that would be hard to mistake for anyone else. Only Dorian had said that it was unlikely anyone else had made it through, which meant…

She rushed forward to the sound and stopped short. The Iron Bull was in the cell, the gray of his skin so pale it was almost white, glowing faintly with the same red light that came off the lyrium. He whipped around from staring at the wall of his cell and his one good eye was a deep crimson. 

“You’re not dead?” he asked. “You’re supposed to be dead. There was a burn on the ground and everything.” 

Ayla stared, dread pooling in her stomach. If there was anything to confirm that they had been displaced in time it was this sight, the body of the Qunari warrior suffused with red lyrium. 

“Alexius didn’t kill us,” Dorian explained, coming up alongside Ayla. “His spell sent us through time. This is our future.” 

“Well, it’s _my_ present. And in my _past_ I definitely saw you both die,” Iron Bull said. 

“I’m no more dead than you are,” Ayla said, trying for levity in the face of-- the face of _that_. She fiddled with the keys, trying to find the right one to unlock the cell. 

“Great,” Iron Bull said. “Now ‘dead’ and ‘not dead’ are up for debate. That’s wonderful.”

“This conversation has taken a turn for the moronic,” Dorian muttered. Iron Bull curled his upper lip. “Just come with us, we’re going to fight Alexius and we could use your help.” 

Ayla found the correct key and sprung the lock. Iron Bull pushed open the door to his cell so quickly that she had to skip out of the way or risk the iron bars smacking her in the face. 

“You’re going to fight Alexius? Why?” he asked, almost more of a snarl as he paced out of his cell. “You want to see what other tricks he’s learned?”

“If we find him, we might be able to get back to our own time and stop all this before it even happens,” Dorian explained quickly. “Exciting, yes?” 

“Alexius isn’t the one you need to worry about,” Bull said. “It’s his ‘Elder One.’” 

Ayla clenched her staff. “This Elder One again,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Who is he?” 

“He’s the leader of the Venatori,” Iron Bull explained. “Some powerful as shit magister, called Corypheus.” Dorian flinched, as if stung, even though he had been the one to suggest that the Elder One was Tevinter in the first place. “He killed the Empress of Orlais, and used the chaos to launch an invasion of the south. The army was all demons. You ever fought a demon army? I don’t recommend it.” 

Ayla sighed, the enormity of the future he presented not seeming quite real. “Well,” she said eloquently. “Shit.” 

“I know right?” 

“How do you know all this?” Dorian asked, narrowing his eyes. “Did you get out of Redcliffe, or have you been imprisoned here since we came to the castle?” 

“No, after you--” he eyed Ayla speculatively “--died, the Inquisition forces went into disarray and we were overwhelmed. Not after I took a few of those fuckers with me mind but mages-- ugh.” He shuddered. “They overwhelmed us, took Blackwall and me down here, but I wouldn’t be a very good spy if I couldn’t get some information while I was being tortured.” 

Ayla winced. “I’m sorry, Bull,” she said. “We’re going to make it so this never happened.” 

“Good,” Bull said. 

“You say Blackwall is here? Do you know where?” 

Iron Bull shook his head. “He was, for a while. They were doing the same experiments with lyrium on him as they were on me. They moved him a few months back though, something about Warden secrets, and I don’t know where he is.” 

Ayla frowned again. The Wardens were another puzzle she hadn’t yet managed to solve. How they played into all of this-- well, she didn’t like it. 

“Is there anyone else?” she asked, though from their empty trek through the dungeon she thought she already knew the answer. 

“No,” Bull answered. “Most of them couldn’t survive the lyrium experiments, the torture. I’m lucky I had Ben-Hassrath training or else I might not have survived as long as I have.” 

Iron Bull glowed with a sickly light, and there was a harsh edge to everything he said that she did not think came from the lyrium. Still, he didn’t have the same hollowed out quality as the man fruitlessly praying to Andraste down below. He had, it seemed, survived. 

“Bull,” Ayla said, guilt creeping up on her. He was here because of decision to go to the mages at Redcliffe, her decision to go ahead and pursue the alliance even though she knew Alexius was a traitor and working with the Venatori. 

“Listen,” Bull said. “If you can reverse this, and you say you can, then it won’t matter.”

“I _think_ I can reverse it,” Dorian said. “I’m fairly certain I can, anyways, if we can get the amulet that Alexius used to send us here then I should be able to work out what spell he used and send us back to when we disappeared. Maybe” 

Bull frowned. “That’s a big maybe, mage.”

Dorian shook his head ruefully. “That’s all I can give you, I’m afraid. It may also turn us into paste. But it’s our best chance.”

“I trust you, Dorian,” Ayla said. 

Dorian smiled, charmed. “I’ve no idea why, but thank you.” 

“Then let’s get that amulet,” Bull said. “Alexius usually is locked in the throne room, we’ll probably find him there. Come on.” 

Ayla gestured for Bull to go ahead and lead the way, which he did eagerly, leading them first to a cache of weapons which he raided for an axe as big as Ayla’s torso. She had to jog to keep up with his long and purposeful steps, and wondered just how okay he truly was. She still couldn’t stare at his crimson glow for too long, not without feeling nauseous. 

“There’s one more thing you should know, boss,” Bull said as they went forward. 

Ayla raised her eyebrow at him. “Am I still your boss then?” 

“Right now, until we get you out of this shithole? Yeah. Later we can talk about payment for services rendered.” 

Ayla grinned. “Good to know, although if we go back in time you probably won’t remember this later.” 

“Probably won’t,” Bull agreed. 

“When we get back I’ll pay you a nice bonus for your services,” Ayla promised. “Even if you don’t remember it.” 

Bull grinned, fierce. “Fair enough,” he said. “Anyways, you need to know, they brought your spymaster in here a few months back. I have no idea if she’s still alive but I figure if anyone could survive this place it would be her.” 

Ayla nearly stopped in her tracks. “Leliana?” 

Bull nodded. “They put the word out that you had died but there was no body and a lot of folk didn’t believe it at first. She came to investigate if you were really dead and they caught her. I’d have thought it was a lie except they walked me past her cell once and I saw her.” 

Ayla shuddered. Another person imprisoned and tortured because of her. “If she’s here, we need to find her.” 

Bull nodded and continued to lead the way up through the castle dungeons. Here the red lyrium grew sparser, but seeing that it had penetrated this far-- Dorian had said that lyrium was fast growing, but this kind of growth seemed wild and out of control. 

“How long has it been since-- since I disappeared?” 

Bull considered. “If I’m right-- and I may not be-- it’s Harvestmere, 9:42 Dragon.” 

“Forty- _two_?” Dorian asked, startled. “Then we’ve been gone a full year?” 

Ayla looked around at the devastation of the castle. Thought about the story Bull had told her. “All this, in just a year?” 

“A lot can happen in a year when there’s a crazy magister on the loose.” Dorian gave Bull a look, to which Bull only shrugged.

“And a hole to the Fade in the sky,” Ayla said. 

“That may not be as big a problem as you think,” Iron Bull said. “I don’t really know what happened, but these Venatori fucks got into a bit of a state and said that someone had closed it and stolen their Elder One’s glory. Questioned me if I knew how it was done, as if I know shit about magic.” 

“Was it the Inquisition?” Ayla asked.

Bull shrugged. “If the Inquisition exists anymore, I certainly haven’t heard about it.” 

Maybe they had closed the rifts. Maybe they were still out there somewhere fighting this Elder One. In the chaos after the Conclave all hope had seemed to rest on Ayla’s shoulders, to bring together disparate and divided people to close the rift in the sky then… Even though she was marked, by the human Andraste or whoever had pulled her out of the fade, maybe it didn’t all rest on her. 

Had Solas done it? If anyone could find a way to close the rift it had to be him. It stung to think of him laboring to close the rift all alone, without the benefit of her mark. She thought of all the times she had sat still and let him study her hand, brow furrowed in deep concentration, yet somehow unbothered by all her questions. Whether or not their burgeoning affection was mutual, well…

She had kissed him on impulse once, and he had kissed back. He had cupped her face in his hands, pulled her closer, and then excused himself and they had not had a chance to speak of it before she left for Redcliffe. 

She and Dorian still had to get back. They had to make sure this terrible future never happened. 

Iron Bull turned a hallway into a block of cells. Every cell Ayla looked into was empty, or occupied by a bundle of rags that may once have been a person, or worse filled with red lyrium. The worst were the people who seemed to be grown into the red lyrium. From one cell as she passed she heard what sounded like shallow breathing and had to look away. 

_I will unmake it,_ she promised herself. _And then I will make this Corypheus fellow pay dearly for all this._

At the end of the block Iron Bull stopped at an empty cell. “This was her cell,” he said. 

“Looks unoccupied,” Dorian said. 

Bull shook his head. “Someone’s been in here in the past few days. They’ve probably taken her out to torture her.” 

“Then we keep looking,” Ayla said. 

“Whatever you find isn’t going to be pretty, I’m just warning you.” 

Ayla gripped her staff tighter and clenched her jaw. “That’s fine. We need Leliana if we’re going to find Alexius.” And, though she wouldn’t say it, the thought of leaving her to be tortured - even in this nightmare future that should never have happened - was too much to bear. 

They continued the search of the dungeons, Iron Bull leading the way up and to a floor that looked like it hadn’t been meant to be dungeons but had been converted for that purpose. Ayla thought of the empty cells downstairs and wondered how many prisoners they must have had to need extra cells. How had it all become so empty?

Another shudder passed through her. 

Iron Bull pulled up short, leaving Ayla and Dorian to almost run into him. She looked up at the tall Qunari quizzically. 

“Sh,” Bull said. “Do you hear that?” 

Ayla strained, listening hard. She could hear the sound of water dripping down below, faint broken moans from the nearby cells. 

Ahead, there was the sound of low voices and the clinking of armor. Iron Bull nodded when she locked eyes with him. “Exactly. Guards. Which means they’re guarding something.” 

“Or someone,” Dorian said. 

“It sounds like there’s a few,” Ayla said, considering. “If we can catch them by surprise though, blast them with magic and then Bull closes in…” 

“As good a plan as any,” Bull said. 

They crept forward at an even slower pace, watching all around for any threat, until the voices grew louder and louder. At last they were so close they could hear words. 

“... supposed to get as many slaves and women as we like under the Elder One, only there’s no glory, only this shithole.” 

“Patience,” said another man. “The Elder One will grant glory to all of us in time.” 

“Not if he spends all his time trying to break into the Black City.” 

Ayla shuddered. All mages knew the Black City, the darkened place that hung above all in the fade, haunting their dreams. It was where darkspawn had come from, the site where the ancient magisters had blighted the world. The fact that a magister wanted to breach the Black City once more? That was troubling. 

She peeked around the edge of the doorway and saw them, six men in armor guarding one doorway. Silently, she signaled to Iron Bull and Dorian. They met her eyes and nodded. 

Ayla concentrated on her staff, on the magic flowing through it. She pictured lightning making a cage around the men, trapping them in a circle that would hurt them to leave. Power built in the air, and Ayla let it loose. 

The room exploded in flame and lightning. Iron Bull rushed past the two mages at such speed it nearly knocked Ayla to the ground. He dove into the fray, cleaving one Venatori in two before he could raise his sword and then closed with another. 

Ayla wove a barrier around her and Dorian and then rushed in. He was right behind, tossing a handful of fire that caught a man between his armor and his flesh and kept burning. The Venatori screamed and ran, right into Iron Bull’s waiting axe. Ayla sent a ball of lightning into the fray that bounced between the remaining men, then called fire of her own. 

She bore down with her will as the fire consumed a man from the inside. Perhaps it was the one who spoke of wanting slaves and women. She hoped it was. 

The room fell silent at last. 

“Let’s keep moving,” Ayla said, not quite looking at the dead men on the floor. They were evil men who worshipped an evil god, but even so… She gripped her staff harder. They needed to get back to the past as soon as possible. This strange future was getting to her. 

Beyond the guarded doorway was another hall of cells but as they moved forward they could hear faint voices. 

“There is no Maker,” said a gruff voice, muffled by stone. “The Elder One has taken all that is His and soon will rule from His city.” 

“That doesn’t make him a god,” a woman spat back. Leliana? 

A sharp crack of flesh followed. “There is no god but the Elder One. The Maker is dead! Say it.” 

Ayla gestured Bull and Dorian forward and then rushed ahead herself, to the door where the voices were coming from. “There’s no use to this defiance, little bird,” the gruff voice taunted. “There’s no one left for you to protect.” 

Ayla paused, hand on the door handle, long enough to spell a shield over the three of them. She eased open the door. Inside was a room of horror, blood and unmentionable pieces of flesh strewn carelessly about, implements of torture, and Leliana hung suspended by chains, her torturer pressing a knife to her throat. 

“You will break,” he hissed. 

“I will die first.” 

The door creaked, and the Venatori turned, distracted. In a moment Leliana took her chance, hauling herself up by her suspended arms and wrapping her thighs around the Venatori torturer. He struggled for air, legs kicking uselessly at the ground as he slowly suffocated, and then with a twist and a crack Leliana let him fall to the floor dead. 

Ayla stopped, caught between horror and relief. Leliana too seemed stunned. She looked like a walking corpse, gaunt and covered in scars and bloodlessly pale, but the look in her eyes was as fierce as ever. 

“You’re alive?” she asked. 

Ayla rushed forward, fumbling with her stolen keys. Bull also rushed forward, supporting Leliana’s body as Ayla released her from the heavy chains. She slumped, limp, as soon as she was released, whatever strength that had allowed her revenge on her captor gone. 

“Alexius sent us forward in time,” Ayla explained. “We need to find him, get his amulet, so that Dorian can reverse all this. I’m so sorry.” 

“This, his victory, his Elder One-- it was never meant to happen,” Dorian said. “If we can get back to our present time, we can prevent this future from ever happening.” 

“And mages always wonder why people fear them,” Leliana scoffed. She stood, working her arms for a moment, grimacing. On her sunken-in face it looked fearsome indeed. “No one should have this power.” 

“It’s a dangerous and unpredictable magic,” Dorian said. “Before the Breach happened we could never--”

Leliana cut him off with a gesture. “Enough,” she said, turning away from all of them and rummaging in a nearby chest. “This is all pretend to you, some future you hope will never exist.” She pulled a bow from the chest, then turned back, grey eyes blazing with fury. “I suffered. The whole world suffered. It’s all real.” 

Ayla stood arrested on the spot, breathless with the intensity coming off of Leliana, the cold fury in the way she gripped the stave of her bow. 

“Your plan won’t work,” she said harshly. “Alexius doesn’t have his amulet anymore. The Elder One tried to use its power to open the way to the Fade and it shattered.” 

Ayla couldn’t breathe. She felt cold all over. It couldn’t be real, couldn’t be true. There had to be something that they could do. 

“Then we have no way back,” Dorian breathed, sounding as shocked as Ayla felt. 

“Just like the rest of us,” Leliana said, and shouldered her bow.


	2. Alexius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ayla, Dorian, Leliana, and Iron Bull all go to confront Alexius.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who gave kudos on the last chapter, and thanks once again to Lana for this would not exist without her.

“Well shit,” Iron Bull said, very succinctly.

Ayla blinked, her shock fading into a numb feeling of despair. “What do we do now? How do we get back?”

“We can’t, not without the amulet,” Dorian said, staring blankly ahead without seeming to see anything. “I could try to recreate it, I know the basic theory that Alexius was working on, but--”

“But with the Breach closed it may not work anyways,” Leliana finished for him, grimacing.

“All of our previous experiments didn’t work before the Breach,” Dorian said. “It being open was what I thought allowed us to move through time, but-- but then how are we here? At the latest we should have come out just before the Breach closed.”

“I have no idea, and I don’t think Alexius does either,” Leliana said.

“Are there rifts still open?” Dorian asked, curious. “Even if the Breach is closed if there is physical access to the Fade…”

“There were rifts all over southern Thedas when I came here looking for you.” Leliana shot an accusatory glare at Ayla. She shrunk under that withering regard. “Regardless the amulet you need is gone. We need to leave this castle now.”

“Wait,” Dorian said, holding up a hand. “If I’m going to try to recreate Alexius’ research then I need his notes. I need to get into his workroom.”

Leliana sneered. “Alexius is holed up in his workroom.”

“Then we kill him,” Iron Bull said reasonably. “Which was our plan all along.”

Leliana’s skeletal hands curled into fists, her frustration shaking her slender frame. “I can get you there. I knew this castle very well in my youth.” She smiled humorlessly. “Not well enough it seems.”

“Leliana,” Ayla said, mouth dry as parchment. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you came looking for me.”

She looked back and held Ayla’s eyes unblinking for a long time. “No,” she said. “I knew the risks when I came here, when I became spymaster for the Inquisition, when I dedicated myself to the Divine. It was foolish of us to pin all of our hopes on one person, no matter how blessed by Andraste she seemed.”

Ayla gripped her staff, unsure of what to say. She had tried to tell the Inquisition that she was hardly blessed, and did not remember Andraste or anything before she was spat out of the fade, that the mark on her hand was the only thing making her special. She had not wanted the Inquisition to learn it this way.

“I’m still going to put it right,” she said.

Leliana studied her a moment longer. “Good,” she said. “Then do it.”

She started off into the hall.

Ayla and Dorian followed after, with Iron Bull bringing up the rear. Leliana looked as if she might break in two in a strong breeze, but she moved with efficiency through the dungeons and then up into the halls of Redcliffe Castle.

“What happened?” Dorian asked. “While we were away?”

It was the question that had been plaguing Ayla, the question that she had been dreading asking. She gripped her staff harder, bracing for the answer. Somehow what Leliana said was worse.

“Stop talking,” Leliana said severely.

“I’m just asking for information,” Dorian muttered.

“No,” Leliana said. “You’re talking to fill silence. You’ll learn it all soon enough but for now-- nothing happened that you want to hear.”

Ayla put a hand on Dorian’s shoulder to pacify him. He looked balked, but seemed to settle into silence for the moment.

Leliana moved forward, turned a corner, and then seemed to disappear into thin air. Ayla had to dash up after her, and only by looking directly at it did she see the tiny alcove where Leliana was opening up a wall.

“We can get to Alexius’ workroom from here,” she said.

They all entered the passageway, Iron Bull having to go sideways to fit his horns. He grumbled as it seemed he also had to duck to keep from scraping the low ceiling. Leliana kept up her punishing pace, uncaring of the Bull’s discomfort.

The passageway wound mazelike through the walls of the castle, sometimes veering off in one direction or another, other times slanting at an extreme angle up or downward. Ayla spent most of it focused on following Leliana, trying to ignore the occasional tortured sounds from the castle and her own racing thoughts.

What could have happened to this world? Empress Celene assassinated and an army of demons and red lyrium run rampant was bad enough. And the Elder One, this Corypheus-- could a single magister be capable of all this? Why did so many worship him as though he were a god? What had happened to the Inquisition, to Cassandra and Cullen and Josephine? Or to the rest of those she had recruited to fight and perhaps to die? What of Solas?

She was so wrapped in her own thoughts she almost missed Leliana stopping short. She raised a fist and whispered. “Alexius workroom is through here.”

Ayla nodded, and passed the message back to Dorian, who passed it back to Iron Bull. Leliana watched them ready their weapons, her gaze steady. She pulled the bow from her back and readied an arrow. “Let’s go.”

Reaching out, Leliana opened up a secret door and stepped out. Ayla followed her, staff at the ready.

Alexius stood leaned over an altar, barely glancing back when they entered his room and then only slumping over more. A ghoul crouched behind him dressed in yellow rags, more corpse than man, already overtaken by the Blight. The creature watched with hollow eyes.

“Alexius,” Ayla said, ready to call magic at a moment’s treachery.

“I knew you would appear again,” Alexius said. He sounded broken, as defeated and hollowed out as the people tortured in his horrific dungeons. “Not that it would be now. But I knew I hadn’t destroyed you.” He sighed, chuckled. “My _final_  failure.”

“Was it worth it?” Dorian demanded, holding his own staff at the ready. Flames flickered at the end, responding to the mage’s emotions. “Everything you did to the world? To yourself?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Alexius said, almost as if he hadn’t heard Dorian, as if he were responding only to himself. “All we can do is wait for the end.”

Ayla stepped forward, pity for the broken man overwhelming her anger. She didn’t even notice that Leliana disappeared. “Alexius, it can still be undone. Give Dorian your notes, your research--”

“The past cannot be undone,” Alexius said, despair clouding his voice. “How many times have I tried? All that I fought for, all that I betrayed, and what have I wrought?” He shook his head,  leaned against his worktable. “Ruin and death. There is nothing else.”

Ayla inched forward, to what purpose she did not know. To cast magic and put him out of his misery, or perhaps to entreat him more.

“The Elder One comes,” Alexius proclaimed, and he sounded almost relieved. “For me, for you, for us all.”

Leliana sprung, grabbing the ghoul from behind and putting a blade to his throat. Alexius spun, life coming to him for the first time. “Felix!”

“That’s _Felix_?” Dorian said, horrified. “Maker’s breath, Alexius, what have you done?”

Ayla watched the Tevinter magister’s last shred of human feeling blaze to life in his eyes at the peril of a son already long lost. The son he’d sold the world for.

“He would have died, Dorian, I saved him,” Alexius said, reaching out pitifully towards Leliana. “Please, don’t hurt my son. I’ll do anything you ask.”

Ayla stared in horror at the son a darkspawn and the father who had traded his soul for this.

“Let him go and I swear you’ll get what you want,” Alexius pleaded, near to tears with his desperation.

“I want the world back,” Leliana sneered, and blood poured from the boy’s throat.

“No,” Alexius whispered as he watched the last scraps of his son die on the castle floor. He raised his staff, hurled a wave of magic at Leliana that knocked her off her feet. “No!”

Ayla raised her staff, summoned lightning to it. It bounced off of Alexius’ shield, rocketing back at her, and she just barely ducked out of the way.

She stumbled back, into a glyph that exploded with icicles as sharp as blades. Ayla wrenched her foot free, her pants leg torn by the ice, and blood welled up hot and red in the gashes. She winced, then summoned magic to break the glyph.

“The Elder One will be here soon!” Alexius wailed, already descended into the depths of madness. “And then he will kill all of you, slowly!”

He summoned an inferno so wide it filled the room with head, so that Ayla broke out into sweat on the spot. She raised her staff and poured all her energy into her barrier, wrapping the protection around Dorian and Iron Bull and Leliana so that they would not be burnt to a crisp. It held, if shakily.

It should have been an easy fight, four against one, but Alexius was spurred on by despair and desperation. He summoned magic far past his limit, so staggeringly powerful that Dorian and Ayla spent most of the fight countering him. Any time Iron Bull got close Alexius would blast him back with a wave of fire.

“We have to break through his defense,” Ayla gasped to Dorian. “Cover me.”

She rushed forward, staff ahead of her and shield up. Alexius whirled around, a cone of ice emanating from the end of his staff. It parted around Ayla’s shield, the air shimmering where the two powers clashed. The elven mage grit her teeth and bore forward under the onslaught of ice and wind.

Just. One. More. Inch. And…

She spun her staff, amassing power, enough lightning to incapacitate the magister. Alexius backed up in the face of her fury, groping at the workbench behind him and threw a flask at Ayla.

It shattered on her torso, green liquid going everywhere, and where it touched her skin it burned. She shrieked, pain overwhelming everything else, and Alexius grinned in triumph and raised his staff.

“Enough! Alexius!” Dorian bellowed into another blast of flame. “Why are you doing this?”

“For Felix! For my son, my only son!”

Dorian cracked his staff on the ground. “No, you’re not. You killed Felix before we ever got here. You killed his memory, everything he ever stood for.”

“No!” Alexius screamed, and he threw a concentrated blast of ice at Dorian who batted it away. “No, I saved my son!”

“No, you killed him!” Dorian shouted, walking forward now, inexorable. Alexius was shooting bolt after bolt of ice, missing wildly as he screamed. “You killed him by giving into Corypheus and you know it!”

Dorian held out his palm, and in it was a flame so hot it burned almost black, and his face was twisted in fury.

“Admit it, Alexius.”

“I- I--” the magister gasped, and he collapsed to the floor. Dorian clenched his hand, and that black fire caught on his robes and kept catching, burning until there was nothing left but ash. Dorian stood and watched Alexius burn in fury and grief both.

Ayla wiped the caustic substance from her skin, which was angrily red where it had splashed. Fortunately most of it had hit her leather tunic, which was now piebald where the acid had touched it. Iron Bull and Leliana were already getting to work searching the workroom.

Ayla stood and walked to Dorian’s side. He was still staring at the pile of ash that had been Alexius.

“He wanted to die, didn’t he?” Dorian asked, not looking away. “All those lies he told himself, the justifications… he lost Felix long ago and didn’t even notice. Oh, Alexius…”

Ayla just put a hand on Dorian’s shoulder, and said nothing, for there was nothing to be said. After a moment he took a deep breath and looked up and away from Alexius’ remains. “Let’s find his notes and get out of here,” Ayla said.

Dorian nodded, and smiled a little, and turned to join Leliana and Iron Bull in the search.

A bellow shook the air and the stones of the castle with it, the roar of something very large and very dangerous. Dust fell from the ceiling as the stones of the castle settled. Ayla raised her staff, bracing for whatever new threat was incoming.

_What now?_

“We must go _now_ ,” Leliana said. “It’s the Elder One.”

Ayla’s blood turned to ice, as if Alexius had truly frozen her. “Do we have the notes? We need Alexius’ notes!” Dorian demanded, rushing up to Alexius’ worktable and shuffling through flasks and vials. He started snatching up whatever papers he could get his hands on.

Iron Bull hauled Dorian back from the worktable by the shirt. “That doesn’t matter, we need to _go_!” Dorian took one last grab at the table, picking up a heavy looking tome before bolting.

Ayla ran to Leliana’s side, following her through the passages of the castle. It seemed that she was not bothering with side passages anymore, running openly through the halls and not stopping for any guards. Any who moved to stop them she shot before they could raise their weapons.

“Where are we going?” Ayla gasped, sprinting alongside Leliana.

“Docks under the castle,” Leliana said, and then pushed faster.

The castle shook again with another earshattering roar. It seemed louder this time, and closer, and Ayla wondered what manner of beast could make such a sound. It sounded frighteningly like the dragon she had come across in the Hinterlands, except that it was already louder.

They reached the docks, Ayla with a stitch already growing in her side. Her injured foot ached. She wondered how Leliana was managing to sprint ahead, fresh from torture, untying a boat from its mooring. Iron Bull caught up and shoved the boat into the water and one after another they clambered in. Behind them, unspeakable shrieks echoed from the castle.

They pushed off, rowing hard until they were out on the lake and beyond the castle. Then Leliana pointed them to a patch of dense reeds, and Iron Bull turned the boat and rowed silently into the foliage, and they waited in breathless silence.

Even here on the lake the sounds were audible and horrifying. Ayla had to clasp her hands over her mouth to keep from making a sound. Dorian draped one hand over her shoulder, comforting her and, Ayla suspected, for his own comfort. Iron Bull laid down the length of the boat and covered himself in burlap, hiding the faint red lyrium glow. Leliana stayed crouched low, bow at the ready.

How long they sat there Ayla did not know. She only knew that her muscles ached from not moving and on the lake water in the middle of the night it was so cold she could not keep from shivering. The sounds in the castle subsided and somehow that was worse than hearing them, because it meant that whatever now inhabited the castle had done its work.

The night went dark all around them. Ayla glanced up, expecting to see a cloud obscuring the moon. Instead it was a great winged creature, black in the moonlight, with a long and wicked tail and a great axe-shaped head. It swooped over the lake, and the ripples of its passage nearly toppled the small boat they had stolen. It roared again and winged away. Ayla watched the dragon go.

She caught Leliana’s eye but she only gestured for silence.

They waited another few hours, so long that Ayla could no longer feel her fingers. At last, by some signal Ayla could not decipher, Leliana deemed it safe to leave the reeds. She woke Iron Bull who had fallen asleep under the canvas, and they skirted the edge of the lake until they found a bit of land sturdy enough to come ashore. They scavenged what they could from the boat then hauled it ashore and hid it in a dense thicket and then Leliana and Iron Bull went back to hide traces of their passage.

Dorian and Ayla stood under the shadow of a tree, waiting and shivering in the cold.

“Are you… alright?” Dorian asked in barely a whisper.

Ayla shook her head, overwhelmed. “No.”

“Me neither,” Dorian admitted, the tiniest laugh bubbling up from him. He wrapped an arm around Ayla’s shoulders, and she wrapped hers around his torso, and together in silence they braced for the reality of a changed world.

Iron Bull and Leliana returned as the night was turning gray with dawn, both moving silently. Leliana led the way, picking a path through the forest that gave the village of Redcliffe a wide berth. As the sun grew higher in the sky Ayla chanced a look above. The Breach really was gone, the scar in the heavens replaced by unending blue sky. It was strange, seeing the blue sky and the forest after the horror that lay behind them.

They continued until Leliana, who had been so unflagging, stumbled. She went down to one knee, and Ayla could see that her whole body was shaking with exertion. She rushed forward, holding Leliana up.

“Let’s find a place to rest and start again in a few hours,” she suggested.

“No,” Leliana said. “We must keep going--”

“You _can’t_ keep going,” Ayla said. “You’ve just been tortured for months, and you still led us through that whole castle and got us out. You’ve done more than anyone would be expected to.”

Leliana shook her head, stubborn, and tried to regain her feet. She stumbled again. “No, we’re not safe yet.”

“Dorian and I can keep watch, while you sleep,” Ayla said.

“We’re safe enough,” Iron Bull said. “We haven’t been followed, and you need to rest Nightingale.”

Leliana smiled, though it was sharp. “I haven’t heard that name in a long time.”

“We need you,” Bull said. “You can’t burn yourself out getting the rest of us safe.”

Leliana glared, balked, and then her shoulders dropped in resignation. “Fine,” she said. “But only if we find a more sheltered campsite, I don’t want to risk Corypheus seeing us from above if he makes another pass with his dragon.”

“Sure,” Bull said. He leaned down and boosted Leliana up onto his back. Ayla wasn’t sure if the ease with which he lifted her was due to Bull’s strength or Leliana’s skeletal form. She hung limply to his back and by the time they found a campsite was already asleep.

Iron Bull laid her down and covered her with the canvas scavenged from the boat. Then he said, “Do you mind if I get a bit of a kip too? I’m not as bad off as her, but--”

Ayla waved him away, watching as he found a spot against a tree to lay down and, to all appearances, go to sleep. It couldn’t be comfortable, but then the Bull had never seemed to care.

Dorian had busied himself laying out all of Alexius’ notes, uncrumpling the ones that had been crushed and laying out what had gotten wet to dry. “You should rest too,” he said. “I’ll just be busy doing this, and we’ve got a lot more travel ahead it seems like.”

Ayla nodded, because although she had not been awake for long she was drained. She found the softest piece of ground she could, laid down, and looked up at the sky and waited for her exhaustion to take her. It took a very long time.

When she woke, Leliana and Iron Bull were having a quiet argument while Dorian watched on in apparent amusement. Ayla blinked blearily at them and then stood up to go sit next to Dorian and ask him what was going on.

“We don’t have any food, supplies, anything to exist in the big bad wilderness,” Dorian explained. “Our large Qunari friend wants to go into whatever is left of the surrounding farms and scavenge something, while our spymistress insists it’s too big a risk.”

Leliana glared at Dorian. “It is too big a risk.”

“Dehydration’s a big risk,” Iron Bull grumbled. “Do you know how long a lack of water takes to kill a healthy person? Three days.”

“We’ll be able to find water, it’s very plentiful around here,” Leliana snapped.

“And food? Maybe these two could go without food,” he gestured to Dorian and Ayla, “but I’m betting you haven’t seen a decent meal in months.”

Leliana crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m fine.”

“The hell you are,” Bull said. “Look, if I go myself and don’t come back by nightfall then you’ll know Corypheus got me and you can march into the forest.”

“And if he breaks you? What if he finds out the Herald of Andraste is back?”

Ayla shuddered under the weight of her title. Would that be how people would see her again, a savior? Or as someone who abandoned them?

Iron Bull rolled his eyes. “Please. I’m Ben-Hassrath, I don’t break under torture.”

Leliana scowled. “Do as you wish. It’s on your head, Ben-Hassrath.”

“I’ll be back by nightfall,” Iron Bull reminded them. “While we’re gone you should find something entertaining to do. Maybe tell these two what’s been going on in the world.” He waved and disappeared into the woods, surprisingly silent for such a big person.

Leliana scowled after him long after he was out of sight, then at last sighed and put her hands on her knees.

“I suppose it’s about time I told you what has happened since you’ve been gone.”


	3. Tales of Days Gone By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leliana tells the story of what happened during the missing year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit shorter chapter than previous, apologies! Once again thank you to everyone for your kudos, you've been wonderful!

Leliana waited, silent and meditative, while Ayla and Dorian settled themselves in to hear her tale. Ayla leaned back against the trunk of a tree, nestled in its roots, and stroked at the bark absently with her forefinger. Tough and gnarled like the bark of thousands of other oaks. It was almost like sitting around and listening to the hahren tell stories of the ancient gods.

Would Leliana know what had become of Clan Lavellan? Ayla had asked Leliana to get word to them only weeks ago from her perspective. Surely they thought she was dead, if they still lived at all.

There was so much about this future that she didn’t know, that she needed to know.

“What’s happened in our absence, Leliana?” Ayla asked, dreading the answer and needing to hear it all at the same time.

Leliana did not open her eyes. “Hush. I’m trying to think where to begin.”

“In the beginning is usually a good place,” Dorian quipped. Leliana glared at him. “What happened right after we disappeared?”

“Right after you disappeared,” Leliana mused, tapping on her finger on her knee. “There was a fight, of course, many of the Inquisition agents were caught off guard by your apparent death. The Venatori captured most of them but a few got away, including myself. Blackwall and Iron Bull weren’t able to make it out.”

Ayla sighed. She already knew that they had been captured right after her disappearance, Bull to be experimented on with red lyrium and Blackwall for what purpose she did not know.

“It took us some time to get back to the Inquisition forward camp. By the time we got there it was clear word had already reached them that you’d been killed. They wanted us to confirm or deny it but-- no one could say for certain and it shattered the Inquisition.”

Ayla gripped hard at the rough bark under her hand. It made an amount of horrible sense. A fledgling organization just barely taking its first steps could not survive such a blow without fracturing. Hearing it still ached, like it was her fault.

“Not at first. Not everyone believed that you were dead, and there was still work to do in keeping people safe from the rifts. But losing what looked like our only chance to close the Breach-- many couldn’t handle it and left the Inquisition. Solas left us as soon as word reached Haven that you were dead.”

Ayla pitched forward, nearly coming to her feet. “What?” she asked. “But you closed the Breach didn’t you? How did you do that without Solas?”

Leliana shook her head. “Whoever managed that it was not the Inquisition. Perhaps they had Solas’ help. Who can say?” She shrugged.

Ayla reeled under this new information. Solas, one of the first to abandon them? She couldn’t picture it. “I just don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry,” Leliana said compassionately. “You two were…”

“We weren’t anything,” Ayla said quickly, although their singular kiss still burned hot in her mind. He was an elven apostate from no clan who had braved a Chantry organization because he believed he could help. Even though they had not always seen eye to eye he had always listened to her and taken her words seriously. He had saved her life and shown her strange things in the Fade she had never thought possible. She had thought-- well, she wasn’t sure what she had thought.

“He was convinced you were gone,” Leliana explained. “And said when he left that he did not have time to waste on hopeless causes.”

Ayla’s fingers clenched into a fist. She did not understand how he could be so callous to leave everyone behind in their time of need, even if she was dead, even if the cause was hopeless.

“After that, what happened?” Dorian asked.

“The Inquisition tried to restore faith and order. We appointed Cassandra as Inquisitor. She was the one who fought hardest for the Inquisition, the only one who had a chance of pulling us together. Or so we thought.” Leliana grimaced, gaunt mouth twisting with the pain of remembered hope. “Perhaps it would have been enough, if Empress Celene hadn’t been assassinated.”

Ayla nodded. “Bull mentioned that. What happened?”

“At first? Nobody knew for sure. Gaspard de Chalons immediately declared himself emperor, those loyal to Celene thought he ordered the assassination and a few weeks later he was dead. That threw everything into chaos.”

“With both their potential rulers dead? I can’t imagine why,” Dorian murmured. “That’s just a recipe for stability.”

Leliana snorted. “Quite,” she said. “First Enchanter Vivienne left after Celene’s death, to try and calm things down. I have no idea if she was in Val Royeaux when the army of demons overtook the city, but the Orlesian military, their nobility, their civic structure didn’t survive.” She sighed, heavy with the weight. Ayla tried to imagine it, demons grouped together in an army and marching on a city. The fear, the chaos.

“Later we learned that an agent of Corypheus assassinated both Celene and Gaspard, that it was a part of his grand plan to throw the South into chaos, but it didn’t matter. Things were already falling apart by then, Inquisition recruits leaving in droves. That’s when I left to infiltrate Redcliffe in the hopes of finding out what had happened to you.” She glanced at Ayla, this time without the vitriol. “If there was some chance you could still be alive we needed to seize it, and if you weren’t then perhaps we could find a body that might give us some answers.”

“And then you were caught,” Ayla finished the story, obvious any time she so much as glanced Leliana’s way.

“Yes, and then I was caught,” Leliana said bitterly. “The rest I’m not so clear on. Someone managed to seal the Breach shortly after I was captured, which threw Corypheus’ plans into disarray. That didn’t stop that creature from declaring himself a god.”

“‘That creature’?” Ayla repeated, puzzled. “I thought Corypheus was a magister.”

“He _was_  a magister,” Leliana spat. “Now he is a Darkspawn, one of the ancient magisters who breached the Golden City and blighted the world, imprisoned in a fortress in the Vimmark mountains for centuries.”

Ayla stared at Leliana in shock. Beside her, Dorian scoffed. “That’s impossible.”

“I do not know how much of his story is true,” Leliana said, eyes meeting Dorian’s with such intensity that after a moment he looked away. “Enough is. He is a Darkspawn, and he is undying, and he is obsessed with entering the Fade so that he can once again breach the Black City and reclaim the glory of ancient Tevinter.”

Dorian breathed out through pursed lips. “Really, it’s magisters like that that give the rest of Tevinter a bad name.”

Leliana did not look amused. Instead she looked at Ayla. “Once he hears that you are alive, Corypheus will no doubt come after you himself. We must get as far away from here as possible if we are to enact this plan of yours.”

Ayla flexed her marked hand. The thing felt alive as ever on her palm, a singular and powerful point of connection to the Fade whose power she had only just begun to understand. It had made her invaluable to the fledgling Inquisition when the rifts were popping up all over and needed closing. Now it marked her, and if Corypheus ever got his hands on it he could breach the Fade again, conquer the Black City, and maybe even become a god in truth.

“I won’t let him get his hands on me,” she promised. “Or the mark.”

Leliana watched her steadily, as if weighing her. Ayla swallowed, and tried to look up to the task. Leliana at last nodded, as if she was satisfied. And if she wasn’t, well-- Ayla Lavellan was all she had to work with.

“But where do we go to hide from Corypheus?” Dorian asked. “If Orlais is overrun and Ferelden doesn’t seem much better off and the Inquisition is gone…”

“I don’t know,” Leliana said, and she seemed frustrated by this fact. “My plan was to head to Highever and cross the Waking Sea to the Free Marches. They are so far as I know still free and still fighting.”

Dorian nodded, stroking his mustache thoughtfully. “I hate to ask,” he said. “But what about Tevinter?”

Leliana shook her head violently. “No. Too many of the Venatori are Tevinter. Even if Corypheus doesn’t control the Empire outright, we would not be able to hide there.”

“Worth a shot,” Dorian said. “So to the Free Marches it is then. Goodie.”

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic,” Ayla remarked.

Dorian grinned, half-cocked. “Oh, sure, didn’t I tell you? I always wanted to see the City of Chains in the middle of an apocalypse. It’s on my must-do tourism list.”

“Very funny,” Leliana said, deadpan. “Now we should be quiet until Iron Bull returns. Corypheus may already be searching for you.”

Ayla glanced back, towards the towers of Caslte Redcliffe looming in the distance. Leliana turned away, checking the supply of arrows in her stolen quiver and frowning, then standing and scavenging for wood straight enough to make into arrows. Dorian delved into Alexius’ notes again, this time reading through them in earnest.

Ayla took her boot off and examined her injured foot. The bleeding had stopped, and most of the damage was to the surface of the skin. It would heal up within a few days if left alone, but she was concerned about walking on it all the way to Highever. She scavenged the area around their tiny campsite for elfroot and found some with little issue, returning with handfuls of leaves. Some she added to her growing stash tied up in a handkerchief, the rest she ground up with her thumb and and laid over her wounds.

As she worked with the herbs she thought about the world as Leliana had presented it. Two great countries fallen into chaos at the behest of a megalomaniacal magister from ancient Tevinter, and a third well on its way. Their allies scattered or dead. A place of despair and death.

They had to fix it, somehow.

The day stretched on, midday turning into afternoon. Ayla scavenged more elfroot, and even found some royal elfroot tucked away in between a fall of rocks. Dorian kept working at Alexius’ notes, occasionally humming or muttering to himself. Leliana fletched arrows, then made a small and sheltered fire that wouldn’t give off smoke.

The shadows of the trees grew deep and dark, the sun only visible in glimpses between their trunk. The autumn day, which had been warm in the sunlight, grew chilly. Leliana aided Ayla and Dorian in packing up and hiding their camp. Once it was clean enough that even a god would have trouble finding their presence, Leliana took one last sweep. The sun dipped below the horizon.

Leliana huffed at last and slung her bow over her back.

“Were you guys planning on leaving without me?” said a voice from the shadows.

Ayla spun, startled, lightning coming to her fingertips. The fact that the Iron Bull had snuck up on them while glowing faintly with red lyrium light was a testament to his true skill as a spy. Ayla was used to him being loud and brash all the time, but when it really counted it seemed he was more than capable of being stealthy. That was good to know.

“Bull,” Ayla said, letting the magic fade from her fingertips. He was grinning as he came into the light, carrying a pack that was full and lumpy. He set it on the ground in front of him and began rummaging through it.

“It’s good to see you’re not dead,” Dorian said. “I thought maybe you would have alerted the whole countryside, big as you are.”

“Thanks,” Iron Bull said, sarcastic. “I’m touched by the concern.”

Leliana looked at Iron Bull’s dropped pack. “We need to get moving.”

“Wait,” Iron Bull said. “Before we do, I found bread and other foods and something you’re going to want to hear.”

He passed out food from the full pack, taking care to give Leliana a mild looking bread. “Don’t eat too quickly now, Nightingale, or you’ll throw up.” She snatched the bread from him, looking offended, but began to take small bites.

“Lavellan,” she asked, around a small mouthful of bread. “Do you have any extra of that elfroot you were gathering?”

Ayla nodded and pulled out the pouch, handing over a few leaves. Leliana put them in her mouth and chewed slowly. “It helps with nausea,” she explained, before starting in on the bread again. To Dorian and Ayla, Iron Bull handed out bread and cheese and dried jerky.

“So, Bull,” Ayla asked, digging eagerly into the food to calm her protesting stomach. Clan Lavellan had been fortunate and had rarely gone without, as some clans did. Complaining had seemed insensitive in front of Leliana, who truly had been starved, and so she had kept her mouth shut. She was grateful for the food. “What’s this news?”

“I ran across a few people remaining on the farms, broken souls mostly enslaved to the magisters, but I managed to learn something from them--”

“You talked to them?” Leliana hissed.

Iron Bull held up his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Relax, I didn’t,” he said. “I only eavesdropped on their conversation, that’s what took me so long. Anyways. There’s people still here in Ferelden fighting the good fight, taking it to those magister assholes.”

Ayla glanced up, hope for the first time overcoming her. Perhaps there was a chance, in this strange new world that she had found.

“The farmers were talking about a small group roaming the countryside, freeing slaves and battling demons and making life hell for the magisters,” Iron Bull continued. “They passed maybe fifteen, twenty miles north of here just three days ago, made a big stink. That’s why Corypheus and his army stopped by, because Alexius was supposed to control the region and he hasn’t done a great job of it. If we’re quick enough we can catch up with them.”

Leliana shook her head. “We don’t have time to go chasing after freedom fighters. We have to get her”-- she gestured harshly at Ayla-- “as far away from Corypheus as possible, before he learns she’s returned.”

“Fighting him is going to be a hell of a lot easier with allies,” Iron Bull pointed out.

“Hopefully we won’t fight him,” Dorian said. “Hopefully I can figure out Alexius’ ritual and we can go back in time and stop all this from happening. That’s still plan A.”

“And plan B is we fight him in the here and now, which means we need allies and a better lay of the land.”

“Do you understand?” Leliana hissed at Bull, frustrated. “If Corypheus gets ahold of Lavellan’s mark then he has won, and there will be nothing left to fight!”

“Enough!” Ayla said, frustrated. Everyone fell silent, and looked at Ayla. “It’s my life we’re talking about here, isn’t it? If we can find allies right now, I want them. They’re north of here, right Bull?” The Qunari nodded. Ayla breathed out slowly. “Good, then we head north and keep our eyes out and if we can find them we’ll check them out. If we don’t, then we follow Leliana’s plan and make for Highever and the Free Marches.”

Leliana and Iron Bull and Dorian all stared at her for a moment longer. Then Bull shrugged.

“Works for me.”

“It’s a plan at least,” Leliana muttered.

Dorian grinned, and clapped Ayla on the shoulder. “Lead on then, O Herald of Andraste.”

Ayla shook her head. “Leliana really should be making--”

“No,” Leliana cut her off. “You’re right, it is your life on the line, and someone should have a final say.”

“You’re still my boss,” Iron Bull said with a broad grin. “Boss.”

“And I’m rubbish at this leadership stuff,” Dorian quipped. “Now let’s get out of here, all this talk of ancient magisters hunting us down has me twitchy.”

Ayla grinned, warmth rising in her chest. She cleared her throat to keep her voice from betraying the sudden wellspring of emotion. “Leliana,” she said. “You seem to know our way, why don’t you take point.”

Leliana bowed her head, and then turned and started into the woods. Iron Bull followed her, the faint glow from the red lyrium better than any torch to follow in the dark, for it didn’t cause night blindness. Ayla followed after them, and Dorian took up the rear, and they started off into the night.


	4. The Road Ahead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey north continues.

Journeying through a forest at night, even with a faintly glowing Iron Bull as a guide, was a slow process. Sparse clouds covered the night sky, and when one of them passed over the moon the night went pitch black and the danger of stumbling over a rock or a root slowed their journey to a crawl. A twisted ankle was the last thing anyone wanted.

After an interminable amount of time they made the road. Leliana held them back a good fifty paces off the road and waited, listening hard for any sound.

Ayla had to tamp down on her growing impatience. Leliana knew far better than she how to evade detection, and her paranoia was more than justified. Still, the thought of allies further up the road had lit a fire in her heels. She fidgeted, rustling the underbrush and earning herself a hissed warning from Leliana. After that she settled into the steady breathing pattern her clan’s Keeper had taught her.

She remembered well her Keeper’s voice, trying to help her learn to control her fledgling magic which is those early days was so prone to go out of control. “You are so passionate, da’len,” Keeper Deshana said. “It feeds the strength of your magic, but if you are to truly be in control of that strength you must learn restraint and patience. You are the master of _your_  magic, it is not the master of you.” Then the Keeper had taught Ayla how to control her breathing and calm her occasional bursts of fury.

Patience had never been her strongest suit. Solas had noticed during a trip to the Hinterlands, and commented. “I’ve noticed you cast your spells with a greater haste than most.”

She blushed, and grinned sheepishly. It was a weakness she knew well. “I’ve never been the best at patience, especially in the heat of battle.”

“It was not meant as criticism,” Solas explained. “Clearly your methods have served you well.”

There was something in his voice, something that she couldn’t quite place. “But?”

“It is only concern,” he said, smiling self-deprecatingly. “Your style trades risk for great reward in power. I should hate to see you hurt, is all.”

Ayla smiled, touched. “That’s what I have you all for,” she said. “Isn’t it?”

Solas smiled, though there was a tightness to it. “Indeed.”

Maybe she should not have joked about the help of her companions. It seemed vainglorious, now that they were scattered to the four winds. Her haste, her need to settle things with the mages and close the Breach as soon as they could, had made this nightmare future possible.

“Let’s move,” Leliana said at last, drawing Lavellan out of her thoughts.

They emerged from the woods and onto a road made of weathered and darkened stone that had survived centuries of wear from weather and travelers.

“The Imperial Road follows Lake Calenhad all the way to its northernmost edge, after which we can turn off and make for Highever,” Leliana explained as they traveled, two abreast for the road was wide enough to accommodate.

“Thank Andraste,” Dorian said. “The Imperium has done some terrible things in its day, but roads were not one of them.”

“Sure, if you’re the one walking on them,” Iron Bull said. “If you’re the slave building them, on the other hand…”

“Yes, fine, point taken,” Dorian grumbled. “You shan’t spoil my good mood. You lot might be accustomed to tromping through the forest but I’m certainly not.”

“You should have said something,” Iron Bull rumbled. “I would have carried you.”

“Very generous,” Dorian said acidly.

“Well,” Bull said. “I’m a giver.”

They made good time on the Imperial Highway, moving quickly through the night and into the next morning. Ayla’s clan had rarely traveled near Ferelden, but she had learned some since being sent to the Conclave and more since joining the Inquisition. This should have been a busy highway, but even traveling at night they met few travelers. Whenever they heard someone traveling the roads Leliana pulled them all so far off the road they caught only glimpses.

Most travelers were armored Venatori, traveling in packs and escorting supplies to and fro. Some traveled openly with demons, bound in service as guards and scouts. Others traveled with armored knights who might have been Templars, only molded into grotesqueries by red lyrium.

Ayla had very few dealings with the Templar Order, as a rule. They ignored Dalish mages for the most part, so long as they stayed away from cities and didn’t cause trouble, and given the alternative was lifelong imprisonment in a Circle tower she had mostly stayed clear until the Conclave. Her impression was that they were a mix of true believers and opportunistic bullies who liked to have power over others and the end result was the same either way.

They did not deserve this, red lyrium grafted into their flesh and turning them to hulking monsters.

“Bull,” Ayla asked softly, once they were far down the road from the Venatori traveling with the Templars. “Why didn’t the red lyrium do _that_ to you? I mean, I’m glad it didn’t, but--”

She trailed off, absently spinning her staff in her hand. Iron Bull chuckled. “But you’re a mage, which means you’re curious.” He raised an eyebrow, as if to ask if he had the gist of it. Ayla nodded. “I’m not an expert on lyrium and it’s not like those Venatori fucks would tell me much but, from what I can gather, different people react differently. Also I never ate any, I was just exposed. Templars ingest the stuff right?”

“Barbaric southern practice,” Dorian said with a shake of his head. “Let’s cobble together a guard for mages out of lyrium addicts. There’s no way a plan that brilliant could backfire.”

“Oh, the ‘Vints have plenty of addicts themselves,” Bull said. “There’s a whole trade out of Seheron, very bloody, all paid for with ‘Vint coin.”

“Yes, that’s exactly the same as a Chantry sponsored military force.”

“Does it matter?” Ayla said, hoping to cut off a potential argument. “Bull, is there anything we can do about the lyrium?”

Bull shook his head. “No clue. Keep away from the stuff? Don’t eat any?”

“There may be a way to magically excise it,” Dorian said. “Unfortunately I’ve never studied lyrium, red or otherwise. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“Me neither,” Ayla admitted sheepishly. She’d run across the stuff on her travels, and the spread was certainly on the radar of the Inquisition. She had put studying it on the backburner, to focus on closing the Breach. Now she wished she had.

“So long as you don’t mix any in my soup, I think I’m fine,” Bull said.

“I should hope you’d notice rocks floating in your soup,” Dorian commented.

Bull chuckled. “Maybe to your refined palette, Vint.”

“There should be a good place to sleep a little off the road here,” Leliana interrupted them, pointing off the road into what looked like just another stretch of forest, much like what they had just been passing through.

“Are you sure?” Ayla asked, eyeing it skeptically.

“If memory serves, yes,” Leliana said, and started off the trail.

Of course. Leliana had once traveled with the Hero of Ferelden in order to stop the Fifth Blight, over ten years ago. The stories said that after regent Loghain mac Tir had declared the Warden a traitor, she and her companions had traveled these roads hiding from Darkspawn and Loghain’s assassins alike, gathering allies along the way.

“Did you camp here during the Blight?”

Leliana smiled, wistful, and it stretched the hollowed out skin of her face. “Once, but I remembered it,” she said. “It was a beautiful place-- ahh.” She sighed as she pushed through a copse of close together trees and a dapple of sunlight transformed her into something of the woman she had once been, lessening the pallor of her face and putting life back in her eyes.

Ayla smiled to see it.

The site itself was beautiful, a sheltered bank of a stream winding its way down to Lake Calenhad, nestled by waterfalls. Crystal Grace grew plentifully along the banks, delicate blue flowers swaying in the wind like a bunch of tiny upturned bells.

The last time she’d seen this flower Ayla had been traveling the Hinterlands and stumbled across it. She’d taken a few cuttings - it was a remarkable demulcent - and told Solas a story she’d heard of an Orlesian noblewoman who, thinking the blue flowers should tinkle in the breeze, hired a mage to enchant them for her only to be driven mad by the sound and burn her garden to the ground - along with her carriage house. He’d smiled at her while she was telling it, almost as if he were distracted, and the sun had caught him just right and that was the first moment she had noticed he was truly _handsome_.

They camped at the riverside for the rest of the day, drinking their fill of the cold stream water and washing away the grime from their skin. Ayla had to look away guiltily from Leliana’s tapestry of scars old and new, knowing that most of them were due to her attempted rescue.

Dorian had to be coaxed into stream washing and at last removed his shirt. When Iron Bull made comment he turned furiously red and stalked into the stream to bathe.

Iron Bull took their first watch, then Dorian. Ayla was left with the final watch, waiting for the moon to rise high enough to see by. Waiting staff in hand while darkness descended over the forest and the shadows grew longer and deeper, the sunshine and the calm of the day long past, the great risk that they were facing returned to the forefront of her mind.

An undying magister was on the brink of entering the Fade and perhaps becoming a god. He must have somehow engineered the explosion at the Conclave, killing hundreds and opening the Breach. He had murdered his way to power and enslaved thousands, keeping his rule with the aid of demons and cruel experiments.

Ayla flexed her left hand, feeling the edges of her mark underneath the leather of her glove, as she always did. The ache was less now than it was just a day ago, faded into what she had come to think of as ‘normal’ for the mark. She pulled her gloves off, finger by finger, slowly easing the supple leather away and revealing the magical scar.

She traced the edges of the mark with the fingers of her right hand. Staring right at it, the thing looked almost like a hole in her hand emitting greenish light in nearly the shape of a crescent. The flesh surrounding the edges tingled with magical energy when she touched it. Touching the mark itself there was no sensation in her right hand, as though it had burned away the nerves in the center of her palm.

There was nothing more she would learn about the thing by staring at it. She had already puzzled over it for hours, with and without Solas nearby to bounce theories off of.

Maybe Corypheus would know more, Ayla thought with a grim smile. Pity she couldn’t march up and ask him for all of the answers to her questions.

She pulled her gloves back on with a huff and resumed her watch.

The moon rose above the treeline and Ayla woke her companions. They were lucky that the moon had only just passed full, but it was waning already, and Ayla had to wonder what they would do once its light was too faint to see by.

There was no answer forthcoming that night, nor the next as they continued their march north. It was beginning to show in all of them. Leliana, who had been so unflaggingly determined, had to stop and rest more often. Dorian complained more and more frequently about sleeping on dirt and rocks in his boots and all the little things that came with rough travel. Iron Bull went quiet for hours at a time, answering questions only in grunts or single-words. Ayla swiftly grew irritated with all of them and combined with ominous clouds that covered the sky but never quite rained it all made for a miserable morning of travel.

As the day edged on towards noon, Leliana announced that they would pass a village soon. They had passed by villages before. Most were empty shells, the people who had once worked the nearby fields either fled or captured by the Venatori. Nonetheless they gave the hollowed out houses and detritus of lives interrupted a wide berth.

According to Leliana they would have to pass close by the village that she called Ashford. It lay too close to a swift-moving river, difficult to cross at the best of times and with rain looming on the horizon too high a risk. They would have to risk the bridge crossing or else go miles out of their way into the wilderness.

The approach to the bridge they took slowly, keeping an eye out for any approaching travelers. The bridge was not long, just a stone arch that crossed between one bank and the next over a river that looked less treacherous than it actually was. If they were surprised on that bridge there would be no easy way to hide and avoid confrontation.

Leliana waved them all forward.

From across the bridge a scream echoed.

Ayla went still, listening to the quiet sound of a forest disturbed. Around her, everyone else had gone just as quiet.

“Let’s get off the road,” Leliana said.

Another scream pierced the silence. A high pitched and frantic sound, the scream of someone truly scared. It sounded like a child.

Ayla started off down the road, before she even had a chance to think about what she was doing. Leliana caught Ayla by the forearm, the grip in her bony fingers surprisingly strong.

“Wait,” Leliana said.

Ayla whirled around. “That’s a child down there,” she said. “I’m not going to hide when they might be in danger!”

Leliana frowned, frustrated, and looked as if she might say something. Just at that moment though, a young girl barrelled around the bend in the road and straight toward the bridge. Behind her and gaining was a shade, black wrapped with distended arms that reached for the girl and barely missed the ends of her blonde hair.

Ayla turned, slammed her staff into the ground. Ice shards scattered from the end where it met the dust. Down the road, a wall of ice closed off the path between the girl and the approaching demon. She seized her chance and scrambled forward, across the bridge almost within the span of an instant.

Ayla pulled lightning into her hands, to strike down the demon--

It fell apart into shadows that dissipated into nothing. At its center lay the black-feathered arrow that had felled it.

Two paces behind Ayla, Leliana’s hand was on her bowstring, another arrow ready for a second shot. She caught Ayla’s eye, nodded, and let her grip off of the bow string.

The girl who had screamed ran towards them, them stopped ten paces out, wild-eyed and terrified. She looked little more than ten, in threadbare clothes covered in grime that could not be from her wild flight through the woods. She looked ready to flee into the woods again at the slightest provocation.

Ayla knelt down on one knee, and held out a hand. “We’re not going to hurt you,” she said. “What’s your name?”

The girl looked their group up and down, one by one. “You’re not Venatori,” she said.

Ayla nodded. “We’re not,” she confirmed. “We’re here to help.”

The girl stared a long time at Ayla, who did not move except for her beckoning hand, as if the girl were an injured halla. She smiled tentatively, trying to seem trustworthy.

“I’m Ayla,” she tried at last.

“Regana,” the girl said. She looked at Ayla and burst into tears.

Ayla looked around at her traveling companions, bewildered. Iron Bull gestured her forward, and Ayla stood up and approached the crying Regana, who did not move even when Ayla was only an arms length from her. She reached out, brushed the girl’s blonde hair lightly.

Regana threw her arms around Ayla’s waist and started crying into her robes.

“The Venatori got us,” Regana said between gasping breaths. “They took us to this village and they said that someone attacked them in the night and then they started taking people and they-- they-- they used blood magic and then my sister told me to run and then a bunch of demons came from nowhere and _they have my sister_!”

She dissolved into shrieking sobs. Ayla put her arms around the girl’s shoulders, comforting as best as she could, but over the top of Regana’s head she met the grave looks of her traveling companions.

“It sounds like a rift opening,” Ayla said.

“And Venatori,” Leliana said.

Not one of them suggested staying off the road and out of trouble.

Ayla brushed back Regana’s hair, cleaned the tears from her face. Already the girl’s sobbing was quieting, though her brown eyes were still bright with wet. “Shh. It’s alright,” Ayla said. “We’ll help you find your sister.”

“Fucking demons,” Iron Bull mutered. “Let’s get this shit done with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who has read and enjoyed this story! Once again thanks are due to nayanroo, who has been indispensable to writing this. 
> 
> Just as a heads up, Chapter 5 might come on a bit of a delay, as it needs to undergo substantive rewrites.


	5. Ashford

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fighting in Ashford goes awry quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who is reading and enjoying this!

Approaching the village of Ashford it was immediately clear that something was wrong. Shrieks and horrible sounds echoing in the streets told of people further on, but coming into the town it was empty of all but the bodies. They slumped where they had died, the marks of demons on them.

Regana stared resolutely past the fallen and did not flinch as she led Ayla by the hand into town.

It looked less like a village and more like a stopover town, with wagons nestled up against the buildings. Every wagon was emblazoned with the Venatori crest. Chains affixed to the wagons revealed their true purpose.

“The Venatori kept captives here?” Leliana asked.

Regana nodded. “Yes,” she said, tugging Ayla’s hand urgently. “Quickly.”

The sounds got louder and more distinct, which only made them more horrible. Desperate sobs, the bellowing of a rage demon, the clank of armor and chains. Venatori barking orders, and the thud of something unspeakable against flesh.

It all painted a story that resolved itself when they turned the corner into what had once been the village square.

Venatori and their slaves alike were congregated in the village square, their only protection from the demons ringing them a thin and flickering barrier. The demons leaped hungrily at the barrier, drawn by the life that they could sense inside. The barrier faltered.

“Bring me another one!” a Venatori bellowed. A magister in robes, arms streaked with red. “I need more power!”

A Venatori soldier waded into the throng of captives. They scattered at his approach. One man fled outright, into the jaws of a rage demon that pounced eagerly upon him. It was over in seconds, and a moan went up from the crowd, who huddled back in primal fear from the indescribable sounds.

The Venatori soldier came out of the crowd, dragging a young woman by her blonde hair. She shrieked and kicked, but despite her efforts could not get away. The soldier pushed the girl to her knees, where she thrashed so that the magister had to fight to hold her still. He raised her knife.

“Mira!” Regana screamed.

The blonde girl looked up, and her eyes were a mirror of Regana’s. They widened in horrified fear.

“No!” Ayla shrieked, rushing forward and into the square. She already had her spell to hand, hurling it viciously at the magister. It struck his barrier, and the demons closed in.

“Go! Hide!” Dorian ordered Regana. “Get out of here!”

The girl ran, ducking between two houses and out of sight. There was no time to worry for her.

Ayla called lightning upon the magister again. He jerked back with a yelp, and Regana’s sister bolted into the crowd.

The magister turned to Ayla, furious and summoning his own magic, but it was far too late for him. Her rage and fury grew in her as power pooling in her fingertips. Ayla stared down the robed man, and brought her fingertips together. Her eyes flashed white hot.

A bolt of electricity pierced the man from the sky. Around him more electricity crackled, forcing the Venatori to scatter in confusion. People-- Venatori and captives alike-- fled in all directions, pursued as they went by demons.

“No you don’t!” Leliana shouted, and pulled back the string of her bow so quick the eye could not follow it. A rage demon went down, a handspan away from the heels of a woman fleeing with a toddler.

A shriek of vengeful triumph had Ayla spinning around, just in time to see the rage demon barrelling down on her. She struck it with a bolt of magic, but it just kept coming, undeterred. Another bolt, more powerful. It shattered into burning hot flecks of magma that spattered Ayla’s jacket and hissed.

She turned, just in time to see Iron Bull cleave a Shade in two with a wild swing. Dorian whirled his staff, and a cluster of demons exploded into their component parts. Leliana placed shot after shot with efficient precision.

Down the road streamed more demons, eager to join the fight. Ayla swept out her staff and froze them where they were, but already she could see more beyond that. She concentrated, and in her hand she could feel the pull of the rift just beyond them.

“There’s a rift that way!” Ayla called to her companions. “They won’t stop until it’s closed!”

“Then what the hell are we doing wasting time here?” Iron Bull demanded.

Already the Venatori were forming up, no longer scattered. They clustered, shields and swords at the ready, keeping the demons at bay.

Demons, or Venatori?

Ayla glanced over her shoulder, towards the fleeing and panicked people. “We have to hold until they get away!”

“We’ll be overwhelmed if we do that,” Dorian said. He looked as strained as her, brow furrowed with the concentration of holding a barrier against so many.

“Go!” Leliana said. “Dorian and I can hold them while you close the rift!”

Ayla locked eyes with both of them. Dorian countered her worried gaze with a confident wink. Ayla summoned up another shockwave, let it loose into the gathering demons, keeping them back from Dorian and Leliana. She turned towards where she could feel the pull of the rift.

“Hey, ‘Vint! Clear a path!”

Dorian scowled, but raised his staff and summoned a cone of ice from the end that balked the fiery demons surrounding them. Iron Bull charged the break in the lines, swinging his axe wildly as he went and breaking for the edge of the town. He held his axe out in front of him, using momentum against any unlucky stragglers.

Dorian and Leliana closed ranks, shoulder to shoulder, Leliana’s bow arm snapping back again and again, Dorian weaving magic around them.

Ayla lost sight of them, sprinting after Iron Bull, falling behind the pace of the large Qunari but keeping ahead of the demons who gave chase. They whipped around street corners and abandoned wagons, downing demons as they went. The fade rift was in sight, a crack in the air bleeding greenish energy, just past the last row of houses. Ayla’s mark pulsed with every step.

She raised her hand to the rift, searching for the connection between the open tear in the Fade and her mark that she had sensed instinctively the first time Solas took her wrist and guided her in closing the rift, sensing the edges and knitting them closed--

The ground shook. Ayla stumbled, her connection with the rift wrenched away by something big coming through.

“Aw crap,” Iron Bull said.

Out of the rift walked a massive spike-covered and many-eyed pride demon. Its steps, heavy enough to shake the ground, reverberated through Ayla’s bones.

It raised an arm the size of a tree trunk and with it a sparking whip of pure fade energy, and brought it down. Iron Bull seized, the magical electricity traveling down his arms and into his torso before he pulled free and charged at the thing. The pride demon backhanded him and he went sprawling, crashing through the village fence to land in the dirt where he lay slumped and unmoving.

Ayla reached out, desperate to close the rift before this thing could come all the way through. The pride demon raised its whip again.

The impact slammed into her barrier, blowing it away and leaving her dizzy. She staggered back, losing her grip on the rift a second time. She shook, shot through with cold and sudden dread, staring up and up as the pride demon stepped all the way through the tear in the Fade and into the real world. It swiveled its head, taking in the battlefield with its seven clustered eyes.

Ayla raised her staff, just a stick as thin as a splinter against the gigantic and misshapen arms of this thing. _Mythal help me_ , she thought, and the pride demon’s eyes all locked on her.

Striking her staff to the ground, Ayla summoned up a wall of ice between her and the demon and started backing up. It crashed through without stopping its lumbering gait, shattering the ice into tiny shards that cut. Blood trickled hot down her forehead, just over her eye. She could feel her blood pulsing out of the tiny wound, her entire body thrumming with the frantic rhythm of her heart. She breathed deep, drawing ice through her staff, so much ice that her teeth started to clack and her fingers went numb.

She turned, and unleashed the frost at the pride demon’s feet. It crawled up the demon’s calves, turning to solid crystals as it went. Ayla willed the ice down, sinking into the rich farming soil to create a circle of hoarfrost and stick the pride demon to the ground.

The ground-shaking steps slowed, and then stopped--

The pride demon stood still, frozen to the earth, staring down Ayla. She raised her staff again, mind’s eye summoning up the thought of a barrier between her and the pride demon, between her and all harm--

Ice shattered. Ayla looked up, just in time for the pride demon’s hand to grab casting arm, staff and all, its large fingers pressing fully into her shoulder. She summoned magic, lighting up her skin with electricity, but the grip did not slacket.

The pride demon roared in response, so loud it blew the dark strands of her hair back, and in its many faceted eyes she saw death.

A boulder the size of a cart barreled into the pride demon, breaking its hold on Ayla and knocking it back a good ten feet. Another boulder flew from the same direction and caught the demon squarely across the chest.

Ayla rolled to her feet, looking around wildly. Thirty feet off stood a black haired elf, staff held out in front of her, raising another boulder out of the earth beneath her. She spun her staff, straining with the weight of the boulder her vallaslin standing out on a sweat-slicked face, and tossed the boulder through the air. It crashed into the pride demon’s skull and shattered.

“Sorry!” said the elf. “Did I get you?”

“I’m fine!” Ayla called back, unsure how she’d found the breath for it. “Just kill that thing!”

“Right, sorry!” said the Dalish girl. She swung her staff out towards the pride demon and tendrils of grass and earth wrapped around its legs, slowing its progress and pulling it forward. It struggled, stumbling as the earth below all shifted, and then bellowed at the Dalish girl and raised its whip.

Ayla threw out her off hand, just in time to put a barrier up around the Dalish girl before the whip cracked against it.

She summoned ice as she had before, to the pride demon’s legs. They flash froze, right above where it was tangled up with rocks and plant matter.

“Hold it still!” Ayla ordered the Dalish girl. She nodded grimly, and poured her magic into wrapping up the pride demon with more rocks and plant roots. It struggled, managing to free some of the entangling matter, but there was always more waiting in the ground.

Ayla summoned up more ice from her connection to the Fade. She spun her staff and the air where it passed cracked and shimmered with sudden frost. She clenched her teeth, ignoring the pain and the exhaustion, focusing only on the pride demon.

She let loose the ice.

All of the demon’s eyes snapped frozen at once, along with its head and its horns and part of its upper torso. It twisted at the waist, frozen at the top and entombed at the bottom, and swung its whip wildly. Ayla ducked under the lash, the static of its passing making her hair stand on end. She turned to her Dalish ally.

“Got another one of those boulders?”

“Another--? Oh,” said the Dalish girl. “Oh, yes.”

The earth rumbled as the Dalish mage swung her staff. The pride demon’s head and upper torso shattered along with the boulder and it swayed and then toppled, dissolving into its component motes.

“Oh good, it’s dead,” said the Dalish girl, with such an aplomb that Ayla had to raise an eyebrow. There would be time to question her later, though.

She planted her staff solidly and raised her left arm towards the rift. “Cover me?” she asked the Dalish girl and then she focused on the rift and _ordered_ it to close.

The fade rift pulsed angrily, almost as if it wasn’t done giving her trouble, and then gave way. It snapped shut with a burst of energy that left spots on Ayla’s vision and might have knocked her feet from her if not for her staff. She sighed, and sagged on the piece of wood, swaying slightly.

“Thank you,” Ayla said, to the girl who had helped.

“Of course,” the girl said, approaching Ayla. She wore her dark hair short cropped around a thin and bird-like face made all the more so by wide hazel eyes. Her vallaslin were a variation on Andruil’s design, uncommon but recognizable nonetheless. “Always happy to help one of the People. I’m Merrill.”

“Ma serannas, Merrill,” Ayla thanked her once again. “I am Ayla, of Clan Lavellan.”


	6. Uneasy Companions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ayla meets the Champion of Kirkwall, and forges an unsteady alliance.

Iron Bull still lay on the ground where he had landed after the demon’s powerful backhand. Ayla rushed over to him and knelt down. He was still breathing, massive chest rising and falling. She shook him gently by the shoulder until he came to groggy consciousness. 

“Wha-? Where’s the demon?”

“Gone,” Ayla said. “The rift is closed.” 

“Oh, good,” Bull said, patting himself all over and then getting to his feet. He immediately spied the Dalish mage. “Who’s this?”

“Oh, you’re big. And very red. I’ve never seen a red Qunari before, is that natural?”

“It’s not,” Bull growled. 

“I didn’t think so. It doesn’t look at all natural. Still best to ask I think-- you never know with people. Sometimes even if they look quite strange, it’s best not to comment.”

Iron Bull raised an eyebrow. Ayla shrugged.

“Merrill, this is Iron Bull.” She gestured between the two in a paltry introduction. “Don’t worry about the red, it’s…”

“Red lyrium,” said Iron Bull. “Will do that to you.” 

“Oh,” Merrill said. “My apologies.” 

“It’s fine,” Bull said, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t happen to be the group we’ve heard of wrecking Corypheus’ shit, would you?” 

Merrill looked up at the Qunari. “How do you mean?”

“Attacking Venatori, ambushing wagon loads of red lyrium, freeing slaves…”

“Oh! Yes that was us,” Merrill said, matter-of-fact. “It’s why we’re in this village at all, heard it was a waystation for transporting Venatori slaves. When they found out we were coming they started summoning demons and opened up  _ that _ thing.” She gestured back towards where the rift had been. “Why? Were you looking for us?”

“Well,” Iron Bull said, looking over at Ayla. “That’s convenient. Isn’t that convenient?” 

“We were hoping to find your clan,” Ayla explained. “I am happy to hear the Dalish still fight.”

It had been too long since she had spoken with the Dalish. Leaving Clan Lavellan behind she had not thought that she would miss them so much, consumed as she was with her learning of the wider world. Then the Conclave had changed her life, and Redcliffe had upended it, and she yearned for just one familiar thing. 

“Oh. I don’t have a clan any longer. We didn’t-- see eye to eye.”

Ayla frowned. She had heard of the practice, Dalish clans abandoning their own if they became too troublesome. If an elf stole, or got in too many fights, or brought down the attention of the Templars, she would be left to the Dread Wolf’s mercy. It was very rare. 

She was spared from having to voice her questions by another voice calling out, “Merrill! Are you over here?”

Merrill rushed to the front of their impromptu group and waved. “Yes! I’m over here Hawke! And look, I found some people!”

Ayla stared at Merrill, wondering if the aftermath of battle was making her hear wrongly. She watched as a woman-- a mage, from the black iron staff she carried, the last ten inches inset with a wickedly curved blade-- emerged from between two buildings and made directly towards them. Varric had described her as strikingly beautiful. Reality seemed to express that in a more subdued way, a pretty woman with a slender face and blue eyes and dark hair cut short, lines hinting around her eyes and mouth as she approached mid thirties.

“Hawke,” Ayla said. “As in the  _ Champion of Kirkwall _ Hawke?”

“Yes, didn’t I mention?” 

Ayla shook her head, feeling faint from the fading rush of battle and shock. “You really didn’t.” 

The Champion approached, eyeing Iron Bull warily as she approached. Ayla swallowed hard, and tried to remember how much of what Varric had said in his story of the Champion defeating the Arishok in single combat was true. 

“That doesn’t look good,” Hawke said, taking in the faint red glow around the Qunari that even in sunlight was still faintly visible.

“Yeah,” Iron Bull said. “Red lyrium will do that to you. Nasty shit.”

Hawke grinned, and the tension in her manner eased, and Ayla felt her shoulders relax. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner, but we ran into some trouble with Venatori. Merrill said she heard fighting over in this direction.” 

“She saved my life,” Ayla admitted. 

“Hawke, this is Ayla of Clan Lavellan and Iron Bull.” Merrill turned and squinted up at the Qunari she had just named. “That’s not a real name, is it? It sounds made up.”

“Didn’t someone make up your name?” 

“Yes but long ago, back when the Elves lived in the Dales, not like-- not  _ recently _ . It doesn’t matter, it’s a fine name, it suits you. Hawke, there was a rift just over there,” she said, changing the tack of conversation so quickly it left Ayla breathless, “and Ayla sealed it with her hand.”

“Really?” Hawke asked, looking suddenly suspicious at Ayla. 

She swallowed, mouth dry, remembering what Leliana had said about Corypheus’ interest in the mark. “It’s a… recently acquired talent,” she said. It was not quite a lie. From her own perspective she had only borne the mark for several months. 

“Hmmm,” Hawke said, looking like she would like to ask more. 

“What’s the Champion of Kirkwall doing in Ferelden?” Ayla asked quickly, before that line of questioning could go further. “I would have thought you’d be in the Free Marches.” 

“That’s… a long story,” Hawke said, and Ayla considered that she might not be the only one with secrets. “One that’s probably better told away from here. The Venatori knew we were here-- reinforcements can’t be too far behind.” 

Ayla glanced back towards the village, thinking of Regana and her sister. “What about the people here? They can’t defend against the Venatori, not in the state they’re in.” 

“We’ll take care of them,” Hawke said. She smiled, clapped a hand on Ayla’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture. “You’re welcome to come along. I’m curious about this rift closing power of yours.” 

“Um,” Ayla said noncommittally.

Hawke gave her a long look, but didn't press.  “The others should have things more than wrapped up by now,” she said. “Come on.”

Ayla fell into step with Hawke. There was one question it seemed a prudent time to ask-- before she ran into any surprises. “If there are others here-- is Varric here with you?” 

Hawke gave Ayla a shrewd look. “No,” she said. “You know Varric?” 

“He wrote the book about you,” Ayla pointed out evasively. “And we’ve met-- previously.” 

“Well aren’t you cryptic?” Hawke said, too cheerful. The hair on the back of Ayla’s neck stood but, but it was clear that Hawke was of no mind to pursue it. “No, Varric’s quite busy back in the Free Marches where we left him, though I imagine if you’re traveling with us you’ll see him soon enough.” 

She nonetheless followed Hawke into the village, through the carnage-strewn streets and into the center of town. Already it was calmer, the demons gone with the rift and the Venatori dealt with. 

Ayla had to look away from the pile of uniformed bodies. They were slavers and murderers and no doubt deserved it, but-- her stomach still flopped over at the sight of a bloody woman stabbing each of her captors with dead eyes. 

Another woman pulled the woman away and into the small crowd that was already forming up at the center of the square. 

Two people presided over the crowd. One, a red haired woman wearing full armor, walked among them and comforted where she could. Her stance radiated authority and reassurance that all would be well.

The other was an elf in armor standing apart from the circle, hand on a sword as big as his own body, watching like a guard over a flock. He was striking, with white hair and raised white markings that Ayla could almost mistake for vallaslin-- except that they were not of any pattern she knew and covered his entire body. 

The white haired elf noticed the newcomers immediately, and moved directly to Hawke. He began checking the Champion over for injury, frowning in concern when she winced at the touch of a bruise, and speaking in low tones. She answered him in the same. They did not kiss. They did not need to-- the way the two of them leaned into one another told Ayla that this must be the Champion’s infamous lover, the elf and former slave Fenris. 

Ayla looked quickly away and scanned the crowd.

Dorian and Leliana were among the crowd. Leliana spoke urgently with a dark haired young man in Gray Warden armor. She looked up and caught Ayla’s eye and nodded. Dorian was not far from her, a small cut on his forehead bleeding sluggishly, standing with Regana and her sister. 

The girl broke from the crowd as soon as she saw Ayla and Iron Bull. She slammed into Ayla with the force of a small ox, wrapping her arms around Ayla’s waist and clinging tightly. “You’re alive!” she shrieked. “Thank you, thank you!” 

Ayla smiled as Regana’s sister wove her way through the crowd. “She’s not the only one who owes you thanks,” she said, holding out her hand for Ayla to take. She did so over Regana’s head. “I would be dead if not for you. I’m Mira.” 

Ayla smiled, absently patted Regana’s head. “I’m only glad we were here to help,” she admitted. 

The red haired woman and the Gray Warden Leliana had been speaking to hushed the crowd. Hawke, personal moment done, stood up at the forefront of them. 

“Hello, good morning,” she called out to the crowd, and people started murmuring amongst themselves. Hawke waited until they were quiet. “Today’s just a lovely day for some demons, isn’t it?”

There was no laughter from the exhausted crowd, who only watched Hawke with hungry and desperate eyes. The Champion only smiled grimly at this, as though she had expected it. 

“These Venatori are gone, but I can guarantee you there’s more coming,” Hawke said. “We can bring all of you with us to the Free Marches, if you wish. I won’t force you to leave behind homes or family, but it’s a better life than what Corypheus can offer you.”

She waited, as that sunk in among the gathered people. 

“We’re leaving here in one hour’s time,” Hawke told the crowd. “If you wish to come with us, be ready. If not, well-- Andraste guide you.” 

Hawke turned away, short speech done, leaving the people to consider amongst themselves. Mira pulled gently at Regana’s arm, saying, “Come on Regana, we need to get ready to leave.” The girl loosened her grip on Ayla, her eyes wide with concern. 

“What are you going to do?” she asked. 

Ayla considered, unsure of what to say. “I haven’t decided yet,” she said at last. “You should go with Hawke, though. You’ll be safe.” 

“She’ll be fine,” Mira said, her arm around Regana’s shoulders as she led her away. “She’s very strong, she saved me, remember?” The teenager smiled up at Ayla, one last thanks, and the two disappeared into the crowd. Ayla watched them as they went, unsettled. 

“Open invitation to come with us,” Hawke said. Ayla spun around, to see the Champion approaching behind her. She was followed by the red-haired woman, the Gray Warden, and Fenris and Merrill. “I heard a bit of that. We could use the help.” 

Ayla shook her head. “I should ask my companions,” she said. She caught Leliana’s eye, in the middle of the crowd. At Ayla’s look, Leliana tapped Dorian on the shoulder and started making her way across the square.

“You could travel with us,” Merrill suggested. “A little ways at least. It’s safer than traveling alone, don’t you think?” 

“That remains to be seen,” Leliana said, as she and Dorian joined Ayla. Already the small knot of people was arraying into two groups, Champion at one fore and Herald at the other.

“I know you,” Hawke murmured, peering at Leliana intently. “We’ve met before, I know.”

Leliana stood stock still. With three days food in her some of the color had come back to her skin, but she still looked as haggard as she had on the day Ayla met her at Redcliffe, sunken eyes and skin stretched tight over a skeletal frame. 

“We have met,” Leliana said carefully. “I was once called Sister Nightingale and the Left Hand of the Divine.” 

Hawke’s jaw worked, her eyes taking in all of Leliana’s appearance, more pity than perhaps she meant showing on her face. “I do remember you. What-- what happened to you?”

“This world happened to me,” Leliana said. 

Hawke let out one long breath from between her teeth. “I’m-- sorry,” she said, her hesitation catching. “If there is anything that I can do…”

Leliana closed her eyes, her whole face shuttering, before she built back up her resolve. “Those who did it are dead. All that remains is to end Corypheus.”

“We’re working on that,” Hawke breathed, something stormy in her countenance that she quickly wiped away. She smiled deliberately. “I’m Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall and apparently parts of Ferelden. This is Merril, Carver-- my brother.” Even as she said it, Ayla could see the resemblance between Hawke and the Gray Warden warrior. He was as dark haired and blue eyed as his sister. “Aveline Vallen”-- she pointed out the red-haired woman--“and Fenris.” 

The elf in question did not drop his wary gaze. 

“The captain of Kirkwall’s city guard, second only to the interim Viscount,” Leliana said. “Here in Ferelden?” 

“It’s more complicated than that,” Aveline said.

“For one, Kirkwall has a shiny new Viscount,” Hawke said. 

“And a right pain in the arse he is,” Aveline grumbled. 

Hawke grinned, and shook her head. “You just don’t like that his first official act was to declare the Hanged Man a protected landmark.” 

“In any case,” Aveline said, with a stress that indicated and old argument, “Merrill’s right, it’s safer in numbers. Even if we go our separate ways later, you may want to consider it.” 

Ayla turned back towards her companion, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

“Stealth has served us well thus far,” Leliana said. 

Iron Bull shrugged. “Sure, until we attacked a village full of Venatori,” he said. “If we’re planning on doing that again, I want a few more people at my back.”

“We’re going to need allies sooner or later,” Dorian put in. 

Ayla looked around at each of them, realizing with a prickle at the back of her neck that they were leaving the decision up to her. “At least until these people are safe, then?” she asked. First Iron Bull, then Dorian and Leliana nodded. 

“Wonderful,” Hawke said, with a clap of her hands. “Now, I’ve met most of you. Ayla of Clan Lavellan, and Iron Bull, and Leliana I met briefly back in Kirkwall.” She pointed them all out in turn for the edification of her companions, before stretching her hand out to Dorian. “But I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” 

Dorian bent over Hawke’s outstretched hand and kissed it. “Dorian of House Pavus at your service, madame.” 

He had barely let Hawke’s hand drop when a blade raised to his throat. Fenris, his white markings lit with blazing white light, glared down the other end of it. He had not been friendly during their introductions, but neither had he shown this murderous hostility. 

Ayla’s blood ran cold, and, bewildered, she called magic to the tip of her staff. Beside her, she saw Leliana’s hand on her knife and Iron Bull hefting his axe. 

“Fenris,” Hawke said, concern etched on her face, seeming as confused as Ayla felt. “What’s the matter?” 

Fenris’ brands all sparked with light once more, as if he had lightning itself trapped underneath his skin, and was now itching to be unleashed all at once. “He is a magister,” he growled, and swung his sword.


	7. Trust and Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The refugees set off from Ashford and secrets are revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this is so late! I had a date, and then somehow forgot it was Friday. Have a long chapter to make up for it.

Metal hit metal with a ringing sound, Fenris’ sword striking Iron Bull’s pauldron. The Qunari squared up to the elf, a full foot and a half taller. Dorian sprawled on the ground where he had been knocked by Iron Bull.  

Fenris snarled and swung again at Iron Bull, who knocked aside the sword with his axe and grinned - wide. Hawke reached out her hand, fire licking the ends of her fingertips in warning. Leliana raised her bow, just enough to aim.

“Stop!” Ayla screamed, punctuating it with a wave of force that blew back the hair from around her face. She glowered, first at Fenris and then at Bull. “We don’t have time to fight!”

Fenris still had not dropped his sword and, even with Iron Bull standing over him, rather looked as if he might like to try again. “You mean us to side with a magister,” he growled. 

“Not a magister, actually,” Dorian said feebly. He still had not moved from the ground. “Just an Altus.” 

“Do you think I don’t appreciate the difference, mage?” Fenris sneered, tension radiating off his body, coiled tight and held back with great force. “And when the right cousin dies you will rise to the Magisterium like every other magister. Did Corypheus promise you a place in the Magisterium once you turn us over?”

“That’s-- not-- I wouldn’t--” Dorian sputtered. “Not all of Tevinter has sided with Corypheus!” 

“I have to admit, it is suspicious,” red-haired Aveline said, looking flinty-eyed at Dorian and at the rest of them. “A magister-- or whatever you claim to be-- coming so far south.”

“I don’t think they mean any harm,” Merrill said, catching Ayla’s eye anxiously, and no one moved at her words. 

If she didn’t somehow resolve this, Ayla realized, it was going to come to blows, and she was in no shape for a second fight. “Dorian has been helping us to fight Corypheus. He helped us to get out of Redcliffe-- he killed Gereon Alexius!”

A ripple of response moved through Hawke’s companions at the name. They knew Alexius, then, as one of the Elder One’s servants if nothing else. 

Dorian also sucked in a sharp breath, but he managed to say, “Corypheus represents the very worst of my homeland. If nothing else then in reparation for what has been done to the south on the part of Tevinter, I wish to see him defeated.” 

Fenris snorted. 

“He has helped us,” Leliana said, measuredly. “More than I would expect of any spy or double agent.”

Hawke’s lips pulled together in a thin tight line, and guilt that Ayla did not understand flashed in her blue eyes. She brushed Fenris’ shoulder gently. The white lines in his skin glowed brighter where their skin touched. “Fenris,” she said quietly. “He hasn’t harmed any of us.” 

“Yet,” Fenris growled, but he lowered his sword. Iron Bull relaxed his grip on his axe. Ayla let out a long and held-in breath. 

“We could still use your help,” Hawke admitted, sharing a look that spoke volumes with Fenris. “Forgive us if we don’t quite trust you yet.” 

Ayla shook her head. “Trust is hard to come by these days,” she said, thinking of the three day journey northward that had brought them here. Hiding off the road any time they heard anyone on the road, crouching silent and afraid in the brush, had eroded some of her own trust. 

She held out her hand, smiling tentatively. Fenris did not look happy about it, and Aveline still watched mistrustfully, but Hawke held out her own hand and shook Ayla’s. Her grip was firm and even. 

Hawke smiled. It was a start. “Let’s get these people on the road,” she declared. 

They gathered up people into the Venatori’s wagons. Most of the captives decided to leave with Hawke for the Free Marches. No one wanted to stay in a land where demons and slavers ran rampant. A few remained, citing family and homes they had been separated from. To these Hawke gave food and coin both. 

Ayla saw Regana’s sister helping settle elderly folk in the wagons and smiled. Mira smiled and waved back. Regana herself slept, exhausted, in the bed of one of the carts. Carver disappeared and came back with a passel of horses which he and Aveline busily hitched up to the wagons with the help of the villagers. 

Ayla and her companions helped to bundle people up into wagons as quickly as possible. This involved a great deal of directing and not a few dubious looks towards the group of them. A “magister”, a Dalish mage and a Qunari did not constitute a trustworthy group to the Ferelden peasantry. 

Fenris watched Dorian’s every move with overt suspicion. Dorian set his jaw and attempted to ignore it, but every so often Ayla would catch his gaze flickering towards the silver-haired elf with the sword. 

“He’ll come around,” Merrill said to Ayla. 

Ayla raised her eyebrows skeptically, and looked over at where Fenris stood with Hawke, brows still deeply furrowed. They spoke in quiet voices. “Indeed?”

“Well,” Merrill considered, tilting her head over towards Fenris. “Perhaps not. If there’s one thing Fenris hates, it’s Tevinter.” 

Ayla considered the strange elf, with his pale hair and the markings that mimicked but were not vallaslin. The way that he hovered around Hawke, as though she were a sun and he a planet caught in her orbit. The Champion too regarded Fenris was obvious warmth, even under such tense circumstances. 

“I’m so happy to have another elf I can talk about Dalish things with,” Merrill continued, smiling despite the dire circumstances. “Hawke is wonderful, but it’s been far too long. Where is your clan? How long were you with them? Were you First as well?”

Again Ayla wondered what Merrill had done, to have been abandoned by her clan. She spent her time answering Merrill’s questions, though it made her fiercely homesick. Once again she had that pang of wondering what had become of her people.

“Wycome’s not awfully far from Kirkwall,” Merrill said encouragingly, when Ayla told her that was where Clan Lavellan had been last. “Perhaps once we get there you could send a letter?”

Ayla considered the idea, as they bundled up the last refugees into wagons and got on the road. Tension permeated the air as they turned out onto the open road, and talk died down to scattered whispers as everyone kept a keen eye out for Venatori. 

They pushed the wagons as hard and fast as they could. Rain rolled in only a few hours after noon, both a blessing and a curse. The Venatori seemed content to stay indoors, and they met no one on the road. The mood in the wagons was miserable, as people huddled together and resigned themselves to the cold and wet. 

Ayla drew her own cloak around herself and tried in vain to stay dry. She caught the eye of Dorian who, mustache dripping, looked thoroughly miserable. Iron Bull unhooked his pauldron and holding it over Dorian’s head, at which Dorian barked with surprised laughter. 

They spent a miserable night off the road, around campfires that burned low and gave off too little heat, despite the best efforts of four mages. They huddled for warmth, making sure to keep children and the elderly as close to the fires as possible. Ayla kept a watchful eye on Leliana, who only stared stonily into the fire. 

They set off again once it was bright enough to travel. Ayla dozed in a wagon under a canvas and woke hours later disoriented and fuzzy-headed with limbs that felt like stones. It did not endear her to the day, which had at least stopped raining. 

The refugees had turned off the Imperial Highway while Ayla slept and now traveled up a winding track only barely wide enough for the wagons. The woods were silent all around, and the frisson of tension that had colored everything yesterday had given way to the first sparkings of hope. 

Once Merrill saw that Ayla was awake she gave her an elfroot tonic that cleared her head and, gradually, made her feel more awake. “We’re getting quite close now,” Merrill said cheerfully. “Only a few hours more, probably.” 

“A few hours more to what?” Ayla asked skeptically, for this did not look like a road that led to any destination. 

“You’ll see,” Merrill said cryptically, which only restored Ayla’s foul mood. She scowled for the next hour, before resigning herself to the mystery. 

“Who wants to take bets?” Dorian asked when Ayla mentioned it to him. “We’re being led to the middle of the woods so they can ritually murder us for being from Tevinter.” 

Ayla raised her eyebrows. “You’re the only one from Tevinter.” 

Iron Bull snorted. “Nah,” he said. “I think they’re more the type to just regularly murder you, and they already tried that once.” 

“Yes, I noticed,” Dorian said. “Kind of difficult to miss, in fact.”

“What, don’t I get any thanks for saving your ass from the elf with the sword?”

“Thank you,” Dorian said stiffly. “For stepping between me and a very large sword. I should hate to think what sort of scar it would have made.”

“It would be a shame to mark up such a pretty face,” Bull said, with a wink that left Dorian staring open-mouthed. Bull laughed, a rumbling sound, and quickened his pace. Dorian straightened his clothes genteelly, as though he were in a noble’s salon and not a cart track in the middle of the Ferelden wilderness. 

“Uncouth wretch,” Dorian muttered. 

Ayla raised her eyebrows and didn’t comment. 

The road ended and Hawke called for their refugees to begin unloading from the wagons. Fenris and Aveline and Carver began taking them off into the woods as they emptied, one by one. Ayla looked around what seemed to be the middle of the woods-- and saw through the trees the watchful stone eyes of Fen’harel in statue, guarding and marking the edge of a Dalish encampment. No wonder the track was wide enough for the wagons - it must have been cut for Aravels to travel, long ago. Overgrown as he was with forest greenery, it could not be a recent camp. 

Ayla approached Merrill, who stood speaking with Hawke. They both looked up as she approached.

“This is a Dalish camp?” she asked, and when Hawke’s expression registered surprise said, “I caught Fen’harel on watch.”

Hawke shook her head. “Not for a long time. Since it’s not being used we’ve repurposed it for our needs,” she said, and then considered Ayla with a long look. “I hope that’s-- alright.”

Ayla nodded slowly. There were members of her clan who would have argued bitterly, she thought. But they seemed to be using it for a good purpose. “You don’t have an argument from me,” she said.

Hawke smiled. “Why don’t you and I have a talk? Merrill, will you take everyone on ahead?” 

Merrill nodded. “Dareth, Ayla,” she said, smiling and waving quickly. “I’ll see you shortly. Don’t scare her too much Hawke.” 

Hawke rolled her eyes. “I won’t scare her.” She waved Merrill off, and the Elvhen woman left and began to collect the gathered people and lead them up and past the statue of Fen’harel. Once Merrill was out of sight, Hawke beckoned to Ayla and led her over to the statue of Fen’harel.

His features were blunted with time, and the gray of his coat was made patchwork by yellow lichen and weathering, but he somehow the Dread Wolf managed a regality of pose. Hawke took a seat at his paws and beckoned Ayla to sit as well. Ayla wondered what Fen’harel thought of shemlen casually taking a sit on his paws, and then perched herself just under the stone wolf’s snout.

“It’s my favorite statue in this place,” Hawke said, with a grin. It would have got her a talking to from any Keeper worth her staff, were she Dalish.

“He is Fen’harel,” Ayla explained. “God of betrayal and lord of tricksters.”

“Merrill’s said as much,” Hawke said, still looking up at the statue. “We were lucky when she found this place. We wouldn’t have been able to rescue so many without it.” 

Ayla frowned. “I don’t understand,” she said. 

“Glad I’m counted in the secrets club,” Hawke said. “How does this go? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?”

Ayla’s fingers caught on the stone of the statue. The hair on her neck prickled. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Really?” Hawke said. “So you’re not the Herald of Andraste, then?” She was still smiling, but in the blue of her eyes there was no laughter, only watchfulness. 

Ayla faced Hawke slowly, taking the time to consider her next words. She gripped her staff, ready to defend if she needed to. “I’m not anybody’s Herald,” she said. “Despite what people have said.” 

Hawke laughed at that as intended, and Ayla smiled crookedly. 

“The magic to close rifts gave it away?”

“That and the fact that you’ve met Varric,” Hawke said. “And are traveling with Leliana, who by all accounts disappeared after you died. How did you ever manage that by the way? I need to borrow it for my next party trick.” 

“Um,” Ayla said, mouth dry. “You probably won’t believe me.” 

“I’ve seen a lot of unbelievable things,” Hawke said. She sighed and settled her hands on her knees, and leaned forward, so that she was looking Ayla in the eye. “Listen, I told Fenris you aren’t our enemy, but-- you’re traveling in the company of a Tevinter Magister, a Chantry agent who’s obviously been tortured, and a Qunari who’s obviously been at the red lyrium too long. I’ve seen the shit that red lyrium can do to people, let alone months of torture. I have to ask.” 

Ayla gave the Champion a long and measured look. She seemed earnest, hopeful for a reason to trust them, but not at all foolish or easily lied to. 

“I didn’t die at Redcliffe,” she explained. “Alexius cast a spell that sent me and Dorian forward through time.” 

Hawke raised her brows. “You’re right,” she said, grinning. “I don’t believe you.” 

Ayla smiled, tightly. Just a week ago she would have thought it impossible as well. “Dorian knows more about it. He managed to take some of Alexius’ notes before we ran,” she said. 

“You’re serious,” Hawke said, astonished. “I admit it would be a bad story to make up.” 

“Even Varric would say it was unrealistic,” Ayla said. 

Hawke grinned at that. “He would,” she said. “So you were in Redcliffe, Magister Alexius cast his spell, and then--?”

“Dorian and I woke up in the Redcliffe dungeons with red lyrium and Venatori everywhere, we found Iron Bull and Leliana and they helped us to kill Alexius, get his notes, and escape. We’ve been on the road since then.” 

Hawke put her head in her hands and rubbed her temples. “Of course. I’d like to see those notes, if you can spare them. Not that I don’t believe you, of course, but-- well I don’t really believe you.”

“I hardly believe myself,” Ayla admitted, and at Hawke’s weak chuckle offered, “Dorian has them. I’m sure he’ll be happy to lend them. Or you could introduce him to Fenris again, I suppose.”

Hawke shook her head, still held in her hands. “You know the world’s gone to shit while you’ve been away, right?” she said. 

Ayla stilled, guilt clenching around her heart like a mailed fist, squeezing tighter and threatening to break it. “I’d noticed.” 

“Not your fault,” Hawke said quickly. “Though some will likely see it that way. I mean, time travel and darkspawn magisters? Who could predict that right?” 

“I’ll help,” Ayla said. “I’ll do whatever I can to make it right.” 

Hawke at last looked up, and smiled ruefully. “Then you’ll fit right in,” she said. She stood up, slowly stretching her joints as she did, and offering a hand up to Ayla, who took it. “Now that you’ve told me all of your secrets, it’s time I told you mine.” 

Ayla followed, somewhat bemused. “Thank you,” she said. “For trusting me. For trusting us.” 

Hawke grinned, a slanted thing. “I’ve probably trusted worse people in my day,” she said. 

Ayla considered, remembering the story from Varric’s book. “The mage?” she asked. “The one who destroyed the Chantry?” 

Hawke rolled her shoulders in a shrug. “Him for starters.” 

They returned to the path where people had once been congregated, now empty of anyone but Ayla’s companions. Dorian gave a questioning look at Hawke emerging from the woods, and Ayla smiled in reassurance. Nothing bad had happened during their talk, in fact just the opposite. 

“Don’t worry,” Hawke said. “I’ve returned your Herald to you safe and sound.” 

Leliana stiffened, then relaxed. “You told her?”

Ayla shook her head. “I didn’t have to. She guessed.” 

“We’ve been trying to keep it quiet,” Leliana said severely. “I hope you understand that she has a power Corypheus wants quite desperately.” 

“Then I shall be sure to tie her up for him with a little bow,” Hawke said. She grinned, only a second longer after Leliana didn’t smile. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re all on the same side.”

“We certainly are trying to be,” Dorian said glibly.

“Excellent,” Hawke said. “Then let’s get out of here.”

They found Aveline and Carver and Fenris standing watch at the entrance to a pile of rocks fallen together to create a small cavern. It did not look quite natural, but neither did it stand out from the landscape, and Ayla found herself itching with curiosity as to their significance. 

Fenris glanced mistrustfully at Dorian, and at all the rest of them. “You still mean to bring them with us, then?” 

Hawke nodded. Her hand sought out his, and the two shared a long look. “Yes. Fenris, we talked about this.” 

Fenris looked away. “You trust too easily, Hawke,” he said, but he did not seem inclined to argue further. 

Hawke waved them all into the makeshift cavern whose shadows housed a hidden stairway leading down into the earth. Hawke led, carrying fire in her palm to light the way, and Fenris and Aveline took up the rear, so that Ayla and her companions were flanked on the middle. Ayla tried not to let their mistrust bother her. 

Light reflected back at them from a glass mural inset on three walls. Elvhen figures ringed the walls. One held her hand outstretched for a perching owl, feathers as bright as a jeweled rainbow, while others thronged behind in colorful gaiety. On the farthest wall placed at the very center was a mirror that reflected nothing but shadows. Merrill waited beside it. 

Ayla took in the room, wide-eyed, and approached the mirror. It was ringed by writing, too faded and forgotten to be understood, though she caught snippets of meaning here and there. “This is of ancient Elvhenan,” she said, wonder softening her voice. 

“Is it really?” Dorian asked. 

“Merrill thinks it’s why the Dalish once camped here long ago,” Hawke said. “Because this was here.” 

Ayla looked into the mirror. This close she could see herself reflected as a thing of smoke and shadow, green eyes and dark hair lost in the glasslike substance that she touched. It prickled against her skin, like she held a lightning spell too long in her fingers and it itched to be let free. 

“I’d heard tales,” Ayla said quietly. “Of mirrors left by the ancient Elves. But I'd never seen one.”

“It is called an eluvian,” Merrill said. “Here, let me show you how it works.” 

Merrill reached her hand out to the mirror, which reflected her hand back as a smoky shadow. In the shadows cast by the flickering mage light her vallaslin seemed alive, stretching and curling like an ancient thing long asleep and now awake. “It took a very long time to learn how the eluvians worked,” Merrill said. “But once you know the trick to them-- they’re not so bad.” 

She closed her eyes and leaned close and murmured to the mirror. Its surface rippled under her fingers, which started to sink into it like it was sand. Merrill turned back, and smiled, and stepped through the mirror. 

“But where does it go?” Dorian asked wonderingly. 

“Kirkwall, for now,” Hawke said. “And a great many other places besides.” 

“Magic mirror to Kirkwall,” Iron Bull grumbled. “Sure, why not? Magic is already so goddamn weird.” 

“Let’s just go,” Leliana said, and followed after Merrill. 

Iron Bull barreled after her, bracing against the mirror as if it were a wall of fire he was charging through. Dorian went next, grinning, eyes twinkling with obvious excitement. 

Ayla took a deep breath, looked square into the rippling surface of the mirror, and stepped forward and into the unknown. 


	8. The Lost Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and the lost year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now to change tacks a little bit and catch up with what our favorite fade obsessed elf has been doing all this time.

On the day that Ayla Lavellan left for Redcliffe, the mage who called himself Solas encountered a demon in the Fade. A hungry spirit, seeking any cracks that would give it a foothold in the waking world and uncaring what harm it caused, the type of creature the humans Chantry warned of. It sensed the cracks in his resolve, the leftover doubt from having his carefully laid plans once again go so terribly awry. It laughed at his folly, mocked his pride in thinking that he could restore the world of Elvhenan when even opening his Orb had cost so much.

Solas was too practiced with creatures of its ilk to pay it any heed and so he offered the spirit only a swift banishment. His doubts remained his alone, and there was no way to go but forward. 

He woke in his room at Haven with the demon’s laughter in his ears and dread in his heart. Omens, he knew too well, were not all the purview of superstitious folk looking for meaning in an uncaring world. Events often rippled back through the Fade, which existed permeating but also separate from the physical world, and even time itself was not constant between the two. Just as he could see into the past so too could the future be felt, if only briefly. 

He sought out Ayla to find that she had already left, the giant Qunari Iron Bull and the Grey Warden Blackwall with her as protection. Other agents of the Inquisition would protect her, Josephine assured him when he asked, and she smiled as if she knew a secret and took great pleasure in it. 

Josephine’s coy smiles did not assuage the unease in him, and neither did another journey into the Fade, which still roiled with upset at the Breach that hung in the sky between both worlds and made any discerning impossible. 

He found himself alone on the frozen lakeshore, facing the biting cold of the wind, and contemplating Ayla Lavellan. She was the latest bane of his existence, a specter that he could not shake, who haunted his thoughts no matter how much he guarded against it. 

At first, his mind was bent on the Dalish woman in the interest of saving her while she lay catatonic and wrestling with the power of the Anchor moving through her. He grew to know her will then, unbreaking against a force that would have killed a lesser mind. Upon waking with the Anchor bound to her hand, he found her a puzzle. How best to guide her to use the Anchor, to close the Breach and defeat the creature who had caused it? 

Working with her had been the truest test. Thinking he could feed information about the Anchor to her, small bits at a time and couched in hypotheticals, he found her mind sharp and focused. Frequently she would make a conclusion or inference that he had thought would take weeks of hinting in a snap moment and Solas found himself fascinated by her satisfied smile when she worked something out. It made him reckless, too willing to dole out information he had no way of explaining, just to see her work it out. 

So it was also traveling with her. Where Cassandra might have offered scorn and Varric might have cracked a joke, in Ayla he found a woman willing to meet people on their terms and listen, and wherever she went she gathered disparate people who might never have worked together but for her influence. Of the many people who had come to the Conclave she was the only one with no agenda but to help better the world. In her he also found a righteous fury, lit by her indomitable will and directed toward the many injustices of this world, convinced of their tractability. In battle she unleashed this simmering anger and made herself a tempest of lightning and ice, and Solas found an odd satisfaction in shoring up her weaknesses with his own magic. 

She had kissed him on this very lakeshore. Ayla’s growing feelings had never been invisible to him, but he had ignored them, thinking that indifference might abate what could never be. 

Instead she walked with Solas out to the frozen lake shore, explaining what had happened in Val Royeaux between the mages and the Templars and the elven thief she’d met there. The wind and snow had swept her dark hair up around her chapped cheeks and she had caught his eyes on hers in an unguarded moment. She smiled, shy. 

Solas knew that Ayla was going to kiss him a moment before her lips found his. He did not turn away, as he should have, instead seeking her warmth in the winter chill. Lips and hands lingered where they should not. 

And then it was over and she smiled at him, flushed and bright eyed, her breath steaming in the frosted air. She bid farewell and left for Haven at a trot, and Solas considered that indifference might be an impossibility. 

Ayla had not pressed the issue, seeming to think her position perfectly clear. And so it would be, were he only what he seemed to be, an Elven apostate with an uncommon knowledge of the Fade and a desire to help. 

Rejection now would be kinder, he knew. She would not understand, but he could say that she misunderstood and that he only wished for her friendship. Except her imagined hurt forestalled him, and he found that he could not bear it, and so he selfishly let the issue lay unspoken between them while she met with the outcast magister and devised a plan for the trap laid at Redcliffe. 

And so he stood on the lakeshore, fear heavy in his heart, thinking of Ayla riding with a Qunari spy and a Warden as protection to deliberately spring a trap. 

Whatever Solas’ unease, he could not have imagined or predicted the true outcome of Redcliffe, when the scouts limped back and said that Ayla Lavellan was gone, dead in the wake of one spell, and many others captured. 

Upon first hearing he did not believe it. A spirit such as hers snuffed out with such ease-- it beggared the imagination. Surely the Inquisition scouts were mistaken and Ayla yet lived. Even as the closed council chamber burst into argument Solas slipped out, cold and sick inside his body. 

He would find her in the Fade, he thought, and stop this senseless bickering. Only when he slipped out of this world and into the next and searched for the Anchor, he found only an emptiness where its steady pull had been. That above all else convinced him of the truth. 

The Anchor was gone out of the world, and Ayla Lavellan along with it. 

The next day Solas packed up his meager belongings and left Haven. Though their leadership had made no formal announcement, already he could see cracks in the foundation of the Inquisition that could not be mended. Not by their efforts, not when the guiding light had been extinguished. 

Cassandra caught wind of Solas’ plans and came to confront him. It was a setback, she argued, but the Inquisition was not finished and the Breach still needed to be closed. The Inquisition needed his expertise now more than ever. Perhaps there was still a way. 

Solas, bitter and cold inside, made her the target of his acrimony. She was a blind fool, and searching for hope where there was none, for neither her nor her Inquisition. He had no time for hopeless causes, not even noble ones. 

Cassandra’s fury was such that Solas wondered if she would have him arrested by her Chantry, that he wondered what he would do if she  _ tried _ . Instead, she turned her back and let him go, and Solas left her and the rest of the Inquisition behind. There was nothing left for him there. 

Solas returned to his network of spies and followers, grown in his absence, and bent himself to stopping Corypheus. The ancient magister’s power stemmed from his own folly, Solas knew, and disaster would strike should he enter the Fade. Thus he bent his network to finding and amassing power to close the Breach. Without the focused tool of the Anchor to bear on the rip in the Fade, brute force would have to suffice. 

In some ways it felt right to focus solely on this task. It was not unlike his early days, awake in a world unfamiliar, working only towards restoring the world of his time. Before the days of the Inquisition and the questions and uncertainty that had come from lashing his fate with theirs. And if sometimes he dwelt on bright green eyes gone cold and lifeless and used that pain to harden his own resolve-- well, it was nothing new. 

Occasionally he heard tale of the struggling efforts of the Inquisition. He was right in his assessment. The Inquisition was doomed, their cause hopeless. Though they named Cassandra as their Inquisitor they were too late and too blind to the problem of Corypheus to mount any meaningful resistance. 

Instead they fractured, and Orlais fell and Ferelden with her. Tales of Corypheus’ depravations spurred on Solas’ efforts. He made alliances, with Briala of Halamshiral who fled after the fall of Orlais, and with the Dwarven Carta who wished their lyrium supply lines back. He woke the sleeping Elves at Mythal’s temple, hoarded all of the power available in the Crossroads between Eluvians, stole like a thief power from long dormant artifacts. 

It was Mythal who made the difference. Not Mythal as he knew her, but the diminished vestiges of her spirit, clinging to feeble life as little more than a parasite on the soul of a succession of mortal women. She ceded her power to him, willingly, for the sake of what might happen should Corypheus’ rot take hold in the Fade and it was enough. 

He was nearly too late. Corypheus himself arrived at the ritual to close the Breach and Solas was forced to face him. Flush with the power of Solas’ own Orb, his Demon army and the magic of the Blight, Corypheus was overwhelming. Their confrontation shook the mountains and buried Haven, but in the end the Breach was closed and the Darkspawn cut off from the Fade. 

The Breach was not truly sealed. It would not be so until the power of the Orb was brought to bear on it. Still Solas felt its scar in the Fade, a wound that still festered. 

His recovery, both physical and magical, took months. In that time his network grew. Some knew him as Fen’harel and understood the truth. More thought the name a pseudonym and only understood that he worked against Corypheus. Others still knew no name at all. 

Again Solas turned his efforts to amassing what power he could. Corypheus was doing the same, obsessed with entering the Fade and making himself into the god he believed he was. Even if Solas could convince the ego-blinded Darkspawn that his goal was impossible, it would not stop his enemy’s preoccupation with the Fade and the Black City. His Blighted nature would spread from there and infect all that the Fade touched and after, there would be no turning back. 

All that remained was Corypheus’ destruction. 

That alone occupied his thoughts. 

Until he stood in the Fade and felt a familiar pull. A subtle eddy of the Fade, invisible to most but well known to Solas, the power of the Fade pulled towards a single point in the distance. His heart jumped upon feeling it, hope welling up where there had been none. 

Solas made to follow it, only to have his attention drawn from the Fade by a shift in Corypheus’ forces that required his attention. The importance of the news did not calm his irritation, and Solas dismissed his inner circle more curtly than they deserved. 

He was more cautious the next time. Even for one practiced in the currents of the Fade, the waters could be treacherous and drag someone not careful underneath. He studied but did not follow the current in the Fade, seeking a sign that it stemmed from the Anchor. 

He did not know until days later, when the current of energy intensified and then washed back in a crack of power. That was unmistakably the closing of a Fade rift, the energy of the Fade drawing into the mark and then snapping back when the connection closed. 

Even if it were the Anchor, that did not mean that the same bearer walked the world again, Solas told himself. Magic like that was not easy to dispel, and the possibility existed that it had reformed in the Fade and sought out a host. That did not mean that the Anchor’s reemergence was something that could be ignored. 

Reluctantly Solas drew away from the Fade. He gave orders to his inner circle, who were very used to running things in his absence and did not question this. Then he sequestered himself and re-entered his state of lucid dreaming. 

The pull of the Mark was stronger than even before. It must be close to the Fade indeed, perhaps even traveling through the Crossroads. It was unmistakably the Anchor, as he remembered it when Ayla bore its power, strong and steady as a beating heart. 

This time, Solas let the current take him and followed it to its source. 


	9. Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill leads the refugees-- and Ayla-- through the Eluvian and to Kirkwall.

The mirror did not lead directly to Kirkwall. Instead it opened on a maze floating in nothingness, full of other mirrors. A strange and impossible landscape that beggared the imagination. The sky seemed to go on forever, dotted with floating landmasses that seemed smaller and smaller to the eye until they disappeared into the air. Colors, too beautiful and bright for the eye. 

The pathways had crumbled - from centuries of disuse or some other calamity? - and their detritus also floated through the air. Trees clung to the rock, fed by no discernible sunlight. Water sprung from nowhere, flowed as rivers, and fell into nothingness. 

“Wow,” Ayla said, awe striking her dumb. 

“It’s the Crossroads,” Merrill said, just as awed. “Built by the ancient elves of Arlathan. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” 

“Really?” Dorian asked, looking around. “It’s a marvel I admit but-- Everything looks gray and murky to me.” 

“It looks different to elves,” Hawke explained. “Apparently humans aren’t invited to the party.” 

“How fascinating,” Dorian murmured, still looking around at everything. “So Fenris”-- he glanced the way of the white haired elf, as if he had thought better of the words already said-- “sees it too?” 

Fenris fixed Dorian with a steady glare. “Yes,” he said curtly. “I can. It must be galling, that an elf can do something a magister cannot.” 

Dorian clenched his jaw, straightened his shoulder. “The Imperium ended the rule of Arlathan,” he said stiffly. “It’s one of the great tragedies of our history.” 

Fenris snorted. “One?” He passed Dorian, checking him with his armored shoulder as he went. Dorian opened his mouth in outrage and then-- closed it, with no more argument. Ayla watched in astonishment. 

“We should move on,” Hawke said, coming up along side another mirror. “This place gives me the creeps. Merrill?” 

Ayla took a look back, wondering how a place so strange and wonderful could give someone the creeps. This place held the secrets of Ancient Arlathan. She would spend days exploring, if she could, if the world were not depending on her. She tore herself away as Merrill whispered her incantation over the mirror, and stepped through.

She emerged in a vault-ceilinged room made of pale stone and trimmed in red velvet. A prosaic marvel of architecture compared to the place they had just left. The refugees crowded the space, huddled in knots while men and women in armor and uniform called out directions to them.

“Welcome to Kirkwall,” Hawke said, and clapped Ayla on the back jovially. A red-haired man dressed crisply in crimson and gold was already rushing towards her. 

“Welcome back, Champion,” he said, bowing officiously. “The Viscount will be pleased to hear of your return.” 

Hawke shook her head. “Bran, we’ve been friends for  _ years _ . Just because the nobility voted to give him a title doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten his name.” 

“You always were one for lack of formality,” Bran said, so carefully neutral that Ayla wondered if it was actually an insult. Hawke only smiled. He nodded to Aveline as well. “Guard Captain.”

“Seneschal,” the red-haired woman greeted him. 

The double doors to the room burst open. Through them came striding a very familiar figure. Small of stature, and broad, with a shirt unbuttoned in a deep V so as to show off a copious and glorious amount of chest hair.  Varric was wearing, of all things, an iron circlet on his head. 

“Hawke, if you were back in town you should have sent a messenger,” Varric said. As he approached, Seneschal Bran bowed and several of the guard followed suit. 

Hawke grinned. “Varric, were you worried about me?” 

“I never worry about my friends when they use magic mirrors to sneak behind enemy lines and play hero,” Varric said. He clapped her on the forearm. “Glad to see you’re in one piece.” 

“He was pacing in the hallway,” said a dark haired and broad-faced man in the guard’s uniform. “As was I, frankly. I know you needed her to navigate Ferelden, but I always worry when my wife goes so far.”

Aveline smiled, a softer expression than Ayla had ever seen on the woman’s face. “Donnic,” she said, to the guard who returned the fond smile. “How has the city been in my absence?” 

“Well enough,” Donnic said, his shoulders straightening. “There’s been simmering unrest but so long as Kirkwall remains untouched by the trouble abroad we’re able to keep a handle on it.” 

“Good,” Aveline said. She kissed Donnic on the cheek, then returned immediately to business. “We should get these people settled.” 

“I won’t be taking your wife from you for a long while,” Hawke said. “I found someone a bit unexpected. Someone who might give Corypheus a run for his money.” She gestured to Ayla and her companions, as Donnic and Aveline left to start settling the refugees. 

“Who-?” Varric started, and then his eyes fell on Ayla. “Holy shit,” he breathed. 

“Your Excellency,” Seneschal Bran said primly. 

“Bran, if there was ever a moment for a bit of judicious swearing, this is it.” He looked over at Hawke, who was looking amused. “Hawke, I knew you were a legend, but this. Raising the dead--”

“Not so dead after all, as it turns out,” Ayla said, with a weak smile. “Hello again Varric. You’re the Viscount now?”

“So it seems we’ve all got news,” Varric said. “Hey Tiny. Nightingale. You both look like shit.” 

“Hey yourself,” Iron Bull said. “Like the crown.” 

“Thanks, you get to keep it when they make you Viscount,” Varric said. He looked directly at Ayla. “You are not getting out of telling me this story, you know.” 

“It’s a long one,” Leliana said pointedly. “And probably one best told after we’ve rested. It’s been a long journey.” 

Already now that they were safe Ayla could feel the exhaustion of their flight north in her bones. Leliana seemed as if she had managed on will alone, for surely she hadn’t anything else left. She looked better than she had when they’d left Redcliffe - stronger, and more solid, but her eyes were still darkened hollows and her skin still stretched tight on her bones. 

“Right,” Varric said, wincing guiltily as he looked at Leliana and then at Iron Bull. “Look, we-- we tried to get you out of there. After a while, I didn’t think you might even be alive anymore. I’m sorry.” 

Leliana’s eyes blazed like two green embers. “I am not interested in apologies,” she said. “I want to rest, and then I want action.” 

Varric turned away from that burning gaze. It was enough that Ayla nearly flinched from its reflected heat. “Sure,” he said. “Bran, there are guest rooms in this drafty old place, right?” 

“There are several at your Excellency’s disposal--”

“Great. Get ‘em rooms somewhere peaceful, if you can.” 

“The green suite, then,” Bran said, then bowed and bustled off. 

“He’s useful in his own way,” Varric said, still rolling his eyes even after Bran left. He grinned at Ayla. “It’s good to see you. Really. The Inquisition kind of fell apart after you-- disappeared. Hell, the whole world did.” 

“If we could have avoided it, we would have, I assure you,” Dorian said. 

“They’re here to help us fix things,” Merrill piped in. “Ayla’s been a great help so far.” 

Varric’s eyebrows raised another notch. “And the Tevinter’s here too. It’s a party.” 

“So you do know him then?” Hawke asked. She was relaxed, but still Ayla sensed a dangerous edge to every word - one that said Hawke would do what she had to to protect her own. “He’s not a Venatori spy?” 

“Not as far as I’ve been able to tell,” Varric said. “Leliana had me looking into his financial connections--” Dorian looked incensed at the Inquisition’s former spymaster, who did not react to this provocation at all-- “and there’s no connection to the Venatori.” 

“A relief for all, I’m sure,” Fenris bit out. He turned back to Hawke, pained. “Hawke, I am going to assist Aveline. I’ll-- find you later?” 

“Wait up, I’ll join you,” Hawke offered. She turned back to Ayla’s party with a promise. “We’ll talk more later. After you’ve rested.” 

“Which is my cue to get you people to your rooms,” Varric said. He waved the group of them forward, away from the group of refugees already dispersing under the direction of the city guard. Ayla waved at Regana and her sister, who sat on the plush red carpeting looking exhausted as they awaited their turn. 

“Where will they go?” Ayla asked, as they passed beyond the hall and into the stark stone halls of the Viscount’s residence. 

“We’ve got a-- friend,” Varric said. “In Starkhaven. He’ll see them settled.”

“What about elsewhere in the Free Marches?” Ayla asked, thinking of Clan Lavellan in Wycome where she had last heard they were encamped. “Are they safe?”

“Sure, if you want the refugees tossed into shantytowns outside the city gates,” Varric said. Ayla frowned, all too familiar with that kind of hospitality on her travels. The tattoos on her face and the points of her ears did little to endear her to the civilised folk of the world. “Corypheus hasn’t turned his gaze this far north yet, but making alliances takes time.”

“Even for the Viscount of Kirkwall?”

“The Free Marches don’t have a reputation for getting along,” Varric said, with a half shrug. “We’re too independent. For now, we’re not pulling out enough refugees to beggar Starkhaven or Kirkwall. If it gets to that point, I’ll have to think of something else-- assuming Corypheus isn’t banging down the harbor by that point.” 

“You think he’ll turn north?” Ayla asked, alarmed. 

“A crazy darkspawn with a god complex?” Varric said, sarcastic. “Oh yeah.” 

Ayla shuddered, and changed the subject. “So, the Viscount of Kirkwall leading guests to their rooms? Seems a bit below your station, I would think, Varric.” 

“Personal guests, who I like.” Varric glanced back at Dorian and Iron Bull and Leliana following several paces behind, conversing quietly amongst themselves. “Well, most of you anyways.”

“How did that happen, anyways?” she asked. “You. Viscount. I can’t quite see the connection.”

“Pump enough money into rebuilding a city that’s falling apart and the nobles elect you,” Varric said. “Well, half of them wanted to elect Hawke. The other half were scared that would draw too much attention, so they settled for the next best thing.”” 

“Oh,” Ayla said. 

“I’m way more interested in the story of whatever the hell happened to you,” Varric said. 

Ayla smiled weakly. “As Leliana said, it’s a long story.” 

“Those are the best kind,” Varric said. He turned a corner into a hall furnished with various ornate doors-- still in that strange and stark style that seemed endemic to the Viscount’s residence. Seneschal Bran stood waiting and ready. “Here we are. Rooms for each of you. I’ll even let you pick which one you like best.” 

Seneschal Bran showed them to three rooms nearly identical and richly furnished rooms, and pointed to a fourth door which he explained was the only room outfitted to house a Qunari.

“Oh right, you people had trouble with us a few years back, didn’t you?” Iron Bull said. 

“We did,” Bran admitted sourly. “Which is why we fortunately have beds made to fit.” 

“I’ll be sure to tell the new Arishok about your hospitality,” Bull said. He winked and retired to his room. 

Seneschal Bran promised to have food and baths sent up, and then he and Varric left them to choose their accommodations and rest. Ayla chose for herself one of the rooms with windows, though they were thin almost to the point of uselessness. At least they let the light in. 

Dorian took the room next down the hall, and he opened the door with a great sigh. “Bless the Maker and the Old Gods and whoever is listening for  _ real beds _ ,” he said. 

Ayla grinned at him. “I thought you were starting to enjoy camping.” 

“Ha,” Dorian said. “The knots in my back have knots of their own. I shall enjoy not finding leaves in my hair for once.” He smiled, fond, at Ayla to let her know that he was only joking, then bid her a good night.

Leliana caught Ayla by the arm before she took her own room. “We should be careful,” she whispered. “Even here.”  

“Varric is a friend,” Ayla said. 

Leliana held her gaze, then turned and shut her own door. 

Ayla barely got through bathing and the supper that was sent up - some kind of delicious fish dressed with pepper and lemon - before she could hardly keep her eyes open. She struggled through cleaning her teeth and braiding her hair for the evening and fell into bed. 

She had barely curled up on the bed before she was already dreaming. 

She felt the snowflakes on her skin first of all, little droplets of ice kissing her skin and melting so that they ran rivulets down her  _ vallaslin _ . She was not cold despite the snow falling onto her face and into her hair and so she felt no need to shiver. 

Ayla opened her eyes to a world covered over in white, the lake in front of her frozen over with ice thick enough to walk on. If she were here with her clan, they might take a day to explore the ice and let the children slide on the slick surface. The trees were high mountain pines that grew evergreen even during winter, clustered away from the lake shore where punishing breezes could whip up. 

She knew this lake, Ayla realized. She had walked its edge before, to clear her head and think or to explore a new home or even, on one very memorable occasion--

She heard the drawn in breath behind her. Knew the voice, even from such a small sound as a gasp. She had found him once on this lake shore and caught him by surprise, and so it only made sense that she would find him here now. 

A smile caught the edge of Ayla’s lips and she turned around. 

“Solas,” she said. 

He moved, the spell of his stillness broken by the sound of her voice in the preternatural quiet, and closed the distance between them. He touched her face, first with one hand and then the other, fingers brushing delicately through her hair. Ayla smiled up at him, at the look of open awe and wonder in his eyes. 

“You’re alive,” he said. Fingers kissed the ends of her ears. “I did not dare to believe it.” 

Ayla reached up, her hands brushing his chest. The simple padded cotton he wore felt familiar against her fingers. He was warm. 

“How?” Solas asked.

“Alexius’ spell sent Dorian and I forward through time,” Ayla explained. “For us it has only been a few days. So much has happened, I can hardly even believe it.” 

“That would explain why--” Solas said, unfocused for a moment and trailing off into thought before his eyes found Ayla’s again with a searing intensity that rooted her to the spot. “But you are here now.”

“I am,” she said, the lightness of her tone hiding the roiling sea of emotion left over inside of her from the last few days. He was here, and close enough to touch, and it felt as if the world might be alright. He looked at her like she was a miracle. “Miss me?” 

And Ayla leaned up and kissed him. 


	10. Dreaming and Waking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and Ayla speak in the Fade.

The kiss was swift, a warm meeting of lips and mingling of breath. Then Ayla pulled back, unsure. She had never had the chance to talk with Solas about their relationship, and he was so skittish sometimes--

Solas shook his head, so minutely it seemed more by instinct. He caught Ayla’s arm even as she turned, pulled her back to him. Pressed his lips flush to hers, hand catching the small of her back so that she swayed into the kiss. The speed of it, the intensity, was dizzying. 

She responded, hungry for the kiss. Claiming his mouth for her own with an intensity that sparked a surprised sound from Solas, a sound that only propelled her to seek more of what he was gladly offering. 

She had missed him. It might well have been a year for her as well, arriving in Redcliffe and traveling all the way to Kirkwall, and then--

Ayla pulled back from the kiss, brows furrowed. The passion was still hot in her blood but it was subdued by confusion. 

“Where are we?” she asked, looking around at the lake shore.  _ Haven’s  _ lake shore, though she could not remember traveling here. “How are you here?”

“You are dreaming,” Solas said. He looked pleased, at her figuring it out. 

“This isn’t real,” she breathed. Ayla had dreamt of Solas before, though never so clear and distinct as this. She felt the ache already starting in her chest. Was he only a figment of her wishful thinking, then? 

“That is a matter of debate,” Solas said, lifting her drooping chin with his thumb. “I sought you in the Fade and found you.  _ That _ is the truth, no matter the changeability of the Fade.” 

Ayla smiled, heartened. She was not convinced that this was not all her own sleeping mind-- but it did not seem to matter so. She looked around at the lake shore, pristine in her memory with the sun shining off the untouched white drifts of snow. “You sought me?” she asked. “How did you even know to look?”

“The mark on your hand,” Solas said. “It has a kind of-- pull on the Fade. After working with it so closely, how could I not recognize it?”

Ayla smiled, warmed. “And so you found me,” she said. “Why here? Why Haven?” 

“I do not know,” Solas said. “The Fade as we perceive it reacts to emotions and dreams, moments we find important. Perhaps it is because…”

His voice caught over the edge of the conversation they had not yet had. 

Ayla looked up at Solas. “Because this is where I kissed you?” 

Solas’ eyes elided hers. “I should not have encouraged it,” he said. 

_ That _ did not square with the way Solas had pulled her to him earlier, the heat of his mouth against hers. Ayla did not know why he was pulling away, but she knew full well that he  _ was _ . 

She stepped closer, so that Solas could not avoid her gaze. “Why not?” she demanded. “Did I seem unwilling to you?”

“It’s not-- that,” Solas said, brow furrowing. It lent a twist of unnamed sorrow in his face, that Ayla could not read but desperately wished to. He leaned into her, swaying unconsciously closer but never quite closing the difference. When he spoke it was with great difficulty. “It has been a long time since we lost you.” 

Ayla’s heart clenched with sorrow. “I am sorry for disappearing like I did,” she said. “I wouldn’t have done it if I’d had any choice in the matter.” 

Solas smiled, a soft and sad thing. “I know,” he said. 

Ayla caught his hand in hers. His fingers were warm where they curled against her palm. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said. 

Solas’ fingers curled in hers. “Would that the world were so simple, vhenan,” he said. “But you are already waking up.” 

Around him the world had already gone soft-edged and indistinct. Ayla tightened her grip on Solas’ hand, on the dream itself, which slipped faster away from her the more she tried to grab onto it. “Wait,” she cried to the brightness in her eyes, already blotting out Solas’ face. “There’s so much I need to tell you!” 

But the dream was gone. Ayla lay still in her bed in Kirkwall, a watery dawn streaming through the windows of her room, blinking away the sorrow of waking. Her heart still beat quick with the desperation of holding onto the dream. 

It all felt so clear and real. She could still feel Solas’ hand, warm in hers, and the echo of his voice when he called her  _ vhenan _ . She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to capture as much of the dream as she could before it fled. Memorized the snow on her cheeks, the way he had looked at her in open wonder, the heat of the kiss. Even the way his face looked as he so deliberately pulled away.

It could be real, Ayla thought, but each second she sat awake it seemed less so. The stone walls of the Viscount’s keep could not be further from that ice-covered lakeshore, sparkling with reflected sunlight. 

At last she threw off the heavy coverlet, resigning herself to the dawn. On a trunk at the foot of her bed she found her clothes and leather armor, freshly laundered and folded. 

She was just putting on her coat when the pounding at her door started. 

“Ayla Lavellan, are you there?” an unfamiliar male voice shouted from beyond the door. “Hello?”

Ayla threw open the door and found herself face to face with a red-faced guard in full armor. Ayla could only stare wide-eyed as the man breathed in great gasps, as though he had just run a long ways. Perhaps he had, she realized with growing alarm. 

“Demons!” he said between breaths. “At the Chantry! Come quick!” 

Ayla set her hand on the man’s shoulder, looked him in the eye. “Breathe,” she said, forcing herself to be calm in the face of his panic. “Slow down and tell me. What’s this about demons?”

The guard’s wild eyes focused in on Ayla’s. He took one very slow breath in, then said, “I was sent to get you. Demons appeared suddenly in the Chantry out of nowhere. The Champion’s fighting them, and the Guard Captain, but they’re not stopping!”

A rift. As far north as Kirkwall. Ayla’s blood ran cold at the thought of them spreading so far. 

She grabbed her staff from where she had set it on the wall  and dashed out after the guard. 

People stared in the halls as they ran past - the city guard with the Dalish elf following. Ayla paid their glances no mind, focused only on keeping up. A few guards along the way joined their mad sprint through the Viscount’s keep and out into the well-kept part of town. 

Ayla slowed only to take the long set of stairs down from the Viscount’s Keep, envisioning herself stepping wrong and tumbling all the way down. She descended as quick as she could, taking the stairs two or three at a time. 

At the bottom the guard waved Ayla left. Already she could feel the pull of the rift close by, although they were only barely out of the Keep. They dashed through the streets, paying no mind to the well dressed nobles and petitioners who crowded the way. Ayla nearly ran down an unlucky merchant, and had to skip to the side to avoid her. A litany of curses trailed in her wake. 

Shouts came from a haphazard heap of stones up ahead. A pile of rubble, right in the middle of Hightown.  _ The Chantry,  _ Ayla realized, with a sudden sick realization. 

City guards were ringed around a Fade Rift, forming a barrier to the demons pouring out and holding them back from the rest of the city. For now. The Champion stood in the center of it, tossing great gouts of flame into the rubble. Guards fought by her side, cutting down any demons her torrent of magic did not disintegrate. Aveline shouted orders to the ring of guards, urging them to keep their shields up. 

The guard leading Ayla rushed up to Aveline’s side, who ducked behind a piece of rubble just as a despair demon breathed a stream of cold at them. Ayla shielded herself, and the closest guard, and joined them in the fray. 

“I’ve brought her, Guard Captain!” 

“Thank you Maecon,” Aveline said, before looking to Ayla. “Can you close it?”

Ayla glanced up at the rift, through which another wave of demons was already pushing eagerly. She gripped the wood of her staff. “If you give me an opening, yes.”

“Good,” Aveline said, and raising shield and sword spun out from behind the rubble. She lunged, skewered a despair demon on the end of her blade. “Hawke!” she called, the pitch of it carrying across the battlefield. “Clear the rift!”

Hawke responded with a blast of flame, and then another and another, scorching the air to blistering around the rift. Ayla reinforced her shield with another bit of summoned magic, and dove towards the rift. 

She drew on the power of the Fade directly, which shuddered and rippled. The rift expelled a wave of force, stunning demons in its wake. The guards rushed forward, capitalizing on the opening at Aveline’s command. 

Ayla watched the tide turn in seconds. She stretched out her hand to the rift and let the power of her mark flow through her, willing the tear in the world to heal itself. It gave, bit by bit, to the magic pouring through Ayla. The edges shrunk, then closed, then vanished altogether leaving only the seamless air. 

A cheer rang out from the guards around her, even as they chased down the last few demons. 

Someone clapped Ayla on the shoulder. The guard Maecon. “Thank you,” he said, relief in his voice. “Maker, I’ve seen demons but I hope I never see a thing like that.” 

Aveline was already ordering her guards to form a perimeter and do a sweep in case of more demons, and Maecon passed Ayla by obediently, leaving the elf to her own nervous fretting. In her experience where there was one rift there would be more, unless something was done to protect the Veil. 

She took a look around the rubble which had sparked the first kindling of the Mage Rebellion. It was three years overgrown with untended weeds, which had sprouted pale green and defiant in the middle of the city. How many had died her, to thin the Veil enough to open a Rift here? 

Hawke stood along amongst the chaos of guards, staring at a spot on the ground. When Ayla approached she saw what the Champion saw. More dead, laid out where they had fled from the rift, with flowers strewn about them. Three: a young woman, a young man, and a child. 

Ayla’s heart clenched with sorrow. 

“They were here to lay flowers,” Hawke said, when she saw where Ayla was looking. “For the dead.”

Ayla said nothing. Her gaze kept straying to the dead child, who could not be more than ten. He looked so small, and awfully pale. 

Hawke sat down hard. “Flames,” she said, into her hands. “Rifts in Kirkwall. What next?”

Ayla took a seat next to her. “It probably opened because the Veil is thinner here,” she said. “Too much death in one place-- if you take measures to strengthen the Veil it may not happen again for a few months.” 

“Months,” Hawke said. “Wonderful.” She looked around at the pile of rubble that had once been Kirkwall’s Chantry with a desolate stare, then dropped her head into her hands. “I hate this place— I  _ hate  _ it,” she hissed into her hands. “Just one more thing I’ve managed to fuck up. Again.”

Ayla put her hand on Hawke’s trembling shoulder, unsure what words would suffice to alleviate this guilt. There were some who blamed the Champion for what had happened here, for starting the Mage Rebellion. 

“I had a sister. Did you know that?” 

“The stories never said,” Ayla murmured, still with her hand on the Champion’s shoulder. 

“No, Varric left her out of his book. I asked him to,” Hawke said. “Carver’s twin, only she was a mage too. A healer, almost as good as--” Hawke looked around bleakly at their surroundings, and Ayla heard the name she could not speak.  _ Anders. _ “She died during the Blight, more than ten years ago.” Hawke sighed. “Mother blamed me for-- well, she ran in and I didn’t stop her.” 

Ayla tried to imagine the kind of grief that would cause a mother to blame one daughter for the death of another, and failed. “I’m sure your mother didn’t mean that,” she said. 

“She didn’t,” Hawke said with a wan smile. “But-- maybe I should have jumped in. Gotten killed instead of her. The world would probably have been better off with Bethany in it. Bethany would have gotten the truth out of Anders once it was clear he was up to something. She wouldn’t have let Sebastian run off to Starkhaven to raise an army. She would have died before ever facing the chance that Corypheus would go free.” 

Ayla’s breath caught short. She’d never heard this before. “ _ What _ ?” 

Hawke laughed, a low and hollow thing. “Oh, good, you didn’t know,” she said. “I thought Varric told the Inquisition all of my secrets already.”

Ayla gripped her staff, swaying as if she had been dealt a blow, remembering the horrors of Redcliffe. The broken and downtrodden people of Ashford. The slow unraveling of the barrier between the Fade and the physical world. 

“Are you saying that you-- let Corypheus go free?” she asked, still reeling. “He’s a darkspawn, and a magister, why would you--?”

“Not intentionally, if that matters,” Hawke said. She shook her head, as if it didn’t. Ayla had to wonder. “It’s why I’m on this damned crusade in the first place, even though I’ve got no idea how to do it. It’s my fault that he was freed. The Wardens had him bundled up nice and safe by blood magic in a fortress in the Vimmark Mountains, at least until he started waking up and messing with their minds. A whole group of them wanted to free him, and because my father performed the last ritual to keep him locked up, my blood was the thing to free him.” 

Ayla’s tongue felt heavy in her mouth as she considered this. A darkspawn who had been imprisoned by Wardens, who could control their minds, who had used them to summon up a demonic army from the depths of the Fade. It was chilling. 

“After we were there, it seemed the best thing to do was kill him, which we did,” Hawke continued. “When we left he was dead on the ground--only he didn’t stay that way.” 

Ayla’s stomach sunk with dread. “He’s immortal?” 

“Or close enough,” Hawke murmured. “I have no idea how he does it but he keeps-- coming back.”

“Mythal’s mercy,” Ayla breathed, at the enormity of the task ahead of her. In front of all the world. 

Hawke stood, brushing Ayla’s hand away from her shoulder, the blank despair in her eyes replaced by resolve. “Corypheus is my responsibility,” she said. “I thought I’d killed him before. This time, I’ll make sure of it.”

Ayla smiled, shakily, still unsure what she thought of Hawke’s story. It answered one question, at least, the question of where Corypheus had come from. And she respected the desire to make it right. 

“Not your responsibility alone,” Ayla said. “We'll stop him. Before he does any more harm to this world.” 

Hawke returned the smile. “Something to strengthen the Veil, you said? Do you have any suggestions?”

Ayla nodded, remembering her long discussions with Solas and the ancient Elven artifact they had found in the Hinterlands, the ideas they had brainstormed to keep rifts they had already closed from opening once more. “It won’t last for for long-- a few months at most,” she said. “But yes, I know a thing or two.” 

“Then we’d better work quickly,” Hawke said. “Varric is already going to be cross with me for keeping you.”

“Varric can wait,” Ayla said firmly. 

“Coming between Varric and a good story? That seems ill advised.”


	11. The Council of Kirkwall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A plan is discussed and settled upon.

Varric was not too cross with Hawke for keeping Ayla. He did make her tell the story three times from the beginning as he held court over the small gathering of friends and allies he had assembled in a private dining room in the Viscount’s Keep, each time asking for details or clarifications from Dorian and Leliana and Iron Bull. The rest-- including Hawke, Fenris, Aveline, Merrill, Carver, and a dark skinned woman wearing revealing clothes and an ostentatious hat calling herself Isabela-- had all been shushed at one point or another. At last Varric sat back in his chair, his questions exhausted.

“Holy shit,” he breathed. “I’m glad you’re not dead but-- time travel? That’s a little far fetched, even for me.” 

Ayla frowned and leaned forward. “You don’t believe me?”

“No, I believe you,” Varric assured her. “If you were going to lie to me, you have one of the best bards in Thedas at your right hand. You wouldn’t need to resort to something so-- outlandish.” 

“Thank you,” Leliana said archly.

“Compliments where compliments are due, Nightingale,” Varric said, tipping his crown like a jaunty hat. “Regardless, this story of yours is going to cause problems.” 

“I’ll say,” Fenris murmured from where he sat beside Hawke. He glared, if anything, even more darkly at Dorian.

“It’s not the type of thing we want to get out,” Ayla said, thinking of the havoc Alexius’ magic had already brought down upon the world. There were enough power hungry and inventive mages who would abuse that power to their own ends. 

“There is that.” Varric nodded soberly at Ayla. “But also-- a lot of people put a lot of faith in the Herald of Andraste, real or not,” he said, cutting off Ayla’s protests before they began. “Like it or not, the world fell to pieces when you disappeared. I have no idea what’s going to happen once the world finds out you’re back.” 

“We’re trying to fix it,” Ayla said earnestly. Again, the guilt of disappearing ate at her. “Dorian thinks he can reverse the spell--”

Fenris leaned forward across the table, brows snapping together. “A magister creates perhaps the most dangerous magic to grace this world, and instead of destroying it you want to use it  _ again _ ?” he demanded. “Fasta vass, you don’t even recognize you are playing with fire until it burns you.” 

Hawke set a hand on her lover’s shoulder, at which he exchanged a look with the mage - and then settled down. “Fenris does raise a good point,” she said. “I’ve never heard of anything as powerful-- or as dangerous-- as this time magic. How do you know that reversing this spell won’t make things worse?” 

Dorian had gone pale when Ayla turned towards him. It was Leliana who put her hands on the table and spoke first. “Worse than Orlais and Ferelden conquered? Worse than the Templar Order corrupted, and millions in chains? Worse than Corypheus poised to enter the Fade?” 

“There’s plenty worse,” Hawke said icily. “Say you cast your time magic and don’t return to the point you left but instead reopen the Rift and hand Corypheus his path to the Fade on a silver platter.” 

“You really think that could happen?” Varric asked. 

“Ask the expert on time magic,” Hawke said, waving a hand dismissively at Dorian. “I only know that magic this powerful tends to come with unexpected consequences. Or maybe you hadn’t noticed all of the red lyrium around lately.” 

Iron Bull, still radiating a faint crimson, said, “Oh I think we’ve noticed.” 

_ Not intentionally, if that matters,  _ Hawke had said about freeing Corypheus. She seemed to know quite a bit about unintended consequences. Ayla turned to Dorian, their resident expert in time magic. “What do you think, Dorian?” she asked. “Could it go wrong?” 

“It’s not the type of spell to be performed lightly, that’s for sure,” Dorian said. Fenris snorted in disbelief. “Certainly not if the outcome of the spell was in doubt. Even if things went exactly right and the spell deposited us back exactly when we disappeared…” 

Ayla felt a chill go up her spine. Aveline raised her eyebrows. “Are you saying that even if the spell goes right, it can still go wrong? That doesn’t sound promising.” 

“You have to understand, this is all quite theoretical and abstract,” Dorian said. “There are several competing theories on the nature of time itself. Have any of you ever heard of the Multiple Worlds Theory?” 

The gathered crowd at the table remained silent. 

“Of course,” Dorian said. He paused, absently stroking his mustache as he worked out what to say. “Put simply, there is a theory that states that everything that can happen will happen, in a different world. Say you stand at a crossroads deciding whether to go left or to go right. All things being equal, you leave the decision to the toss of a coin and go left. You could have just as easily gone right-- and if everything that can happen will happen, you did go right, and in making that decision created another version of the world. One that is as close to our own world as the Fade, but inaccessible except through powerful magic.” 

“I don’t see what this has to do with time magic,” Carver said skeptically. 

Dorian sighed and rubbed his temple. “Imagine if you will that Alexius’ spell that sent us forward in time created one world. This world, that we are living in. Now imagine that reversing Alexius’ spell creates a new world, one where we never left, leaving this world unchanged and at the mercy of Corypheus.”

“Oh,” Carver said, mollified. 

Ayla frowned, concerned. It seemed that they could leave this world to die, or find some way to help. “How likely do you think that is?” 

Dorian shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” he said. “A lot of these were theories that Alexius and I created when I was his apprentice.” He paused, at the sets of suspicious eyes turned his way, then continued. “There’s no way to know for sure, unfortunately.” 

“Then we shouldn’t gamble,” Ayla said. “Not until we know this world is safe from Corypheus.” 

“Sure, but how do we  _ do _ that?” Varric asked. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re not exactly winning this war.” 

“We’re doing alright!” Merrill protested. “We rescued a hundred people yesterday, that’s not nothing.” 

“Oh, Kitten,” Isabela murmured. 

“Sure, we’re saving people Daisy,” Varric said. “But Corypheus has thousands of demons, plus a cult, plus the Red Templars.” 

“You need allies,” Leliana said flatly. “There is no facing Corypheus alone. What of the rest of the Free Marches? Nevarra? Antiva and Rivain?” 

“Have you ever heard the proverb about getting three Free Marchers to work together, Nightingale?” Varric asked. Leliana didn’t move, so Varric only shook his head. “It’s not promising. Starkhaven might back us-- provided they continue to accept their new Prince. You might get somewhere with Antiva and Rivain if you have a credible force to throw against Corypheus, but they’re not going to launch an offensive themselves.” 

“How about Nevarra?” Iron Bull asked. 

“Nevarra you might convince to take action,” Hawke said. “They’re not very comfy staring across a border at a bunch of demons and cultists, but it’s not a war they’re likely to win and right now Corypheus is content with Ferelden and Orlais.” 

Ayla frowned. How could so many could hide behind their own borders convinced that Corypheus’ actions didn’t affect them? “Even to save the world from Corypheus? There’s no one who’s standing up to him?” 

“I didn’t say that,” Varric said. “Ferelden’s got its own resistance and a king in exile. A lot of the freed mages who took Corypheus’ deal broke free of his control. And there’s potential slave rebellion brewing in Tevinter too-- if it gets big enough, maybe it’ll make its way down south.” 

Fenris nodded, and Ayla wondered what had brought him to that information. It could only be for the good that there was unrest in Tevinter, that Ferelden fought back, that some of the mages had managed to free themselves. 

“There’s also whoever managed to seal the Breach,” Hawke said. “We still don’t know how that happened, but it’s probably someone with a lot of power at their disposal.” 

Ayla, her dream fresh in her mind, felt again the rise of her secret hope. She did not voice it, but still she wondered. Could Solas have left the Inquisition in order to pursue the closure of the Breach? He was an expert on the Fade who had worked closely with it and knew the threat the Breach posed. It did not seem so far fetched any more. 

“What about the Wardens?” Dorian asked, looking at Carver in silver and blue. “Corypheus is a Darkspawn, is he not?” 

Carver shifted uncomfortably. Hawke shook her head. “The Wardens have disappeared,” she said. “We’ve got no idea what happened to most of them.” 

“What of the Hero of Ferelden?” Leliana asked sharply. 

“Gone, before all this even started,” Carver said. “King Alistair as well. And Weisshaupt has closed its gates and won’t let anyone in or out. Corypheus can call to the taint in our blood somehow, so it can’t be a coincidence.” 

Ayla remembered abruptly what Iron Bull had said about Blackwall’s disappearance from Redcliffe’s dungeons.  _ Something about Warden secrets. _ She shuddered. “So the Wardens are out then.”

“I can’t imagine the Qunari are taking this lying down either,” Iron Bull said. 

“They’re more concerned with Tevinter at the moment,” Isabela said. “But I have seen more than my fair share of Qunari Dreadnoughts lately. Honestly it gives me the shivers.” 

Iron Bull squinted at the barely clad woman. “Aren’t you the one who--?” 

Isabela shook her head. “No idea what you’re talking about,” she said, too quickly. Iron Bull continued to frown at her and she sighed. “So touchy. I brought the stupid book back. Hawke fought a whole duel about it and everything.”

“I know,” Iron Bull said, then turned back to the rest of the table. “The Qunari have as much reason to hate Tevinter and Corypheus as anyone, and I want to try contacting them. Seeing if they’ll help.” 

Hawke raised her eyebrows. “They’d work with us? Even after I killed the Arishok?” 

“In an honorable duel between acknowledged equals?” Iron Bull rolled his massive shoulders in a shrug. “Sure, why not?” 

“The problem is all of these potential allies are scattered,” Leliana said. “If Bull contacts the Qunari, and we manage to rouse Nevarra, and that brings Antiva and Rivain and the Ferelden resistance and the freed mages and there is also a slave revolt, we will still need organization if we hope to survive.” 

“Corypheus doesn’t know about the Eluvians yet,” Merrill offered. “They’re scattered all throughout Thedas. If he did, he would be using them to try to access the Fade, and the place between the mirrors wouldn’t be safe but we haven’t seen hair nor hide of him.” 

“Hide nor hair, Daisy.” 

“Hm?” Merrill said. “Oh. Well, we can use the Eluvians to travel and communicate, as long as we don’t make too much noise.” 

“Let’s try not to tip Corypheus off about what they can do,” Hawke said. “Just in case.” 

“I’ll leave then, as soon as possible,” Leliana said. “And see what allies there are to gather. Nevarra sounds especially promising.” 

Aveline raised her eyebrows. “I mean no offense to your passion,” she said. “But you hardly look like you could walk, let alone convince King Markus’ court that they should go on the offensive against Corypheus.” 

“Get me to Nevarra,” Leliana said harshly. “And I’ll show you what I can do.” 

Aveline backed off, though the concern did not ease from her face. 

Varric looked at Ayla. “How about you?” he asked. “What do you want to do?” 

Ayla considered Iron Bull going to the Qunari and Leliana going to Nevarra. They had traveled up from Ferelden together, and now it seemed like they might have to part ways and it ached. Only she had no better plan to defeat Corypheus, or at least no better plan that did not involve gambling on Dorian’s time magic. What could she, an elf of the Dalish who had wandered into human affairs and got over her head, offer besides the magic in her hand? 

“I would like to go to Wycome,” Ayla said. “Clan Lavellan was there the last I knew. They may still be there.” Clan Lavellan was a paltry thing, compared to the might of the Qunari or of Nevarra, but that was not why she said it. She wanted-- rather, needed, to know what had become of them. Ayla smiled, weakly. “I’d like to see if I can find them.” 

Merrill nodded somberly. “There’s a mirror not far from Wycome,” she said. “I can take you there.” 

Ayla smiled at her, grateful that there was another at the table who understood the pull of clan and home. 

“It’s not going to be enough,” Hawke murmured, shaking her head at the wood grain. At the curious looks around the table she looked up. “It’s not going to be enough,” she repeated. “Corypheus has been bringing thousands of slaves south for weeks, planning something we have no idea of. It could take months to untangle the Nevarran Court, or to convince the Qunari. I don’t think we have weeks.” 

Varric looked at her bleakly. “I didn’t peg you for a pessimist, Hawke,” he said. 

“We need a symbol, something to rally them around,” Hawke said, staring intently at Ayla. “We need to let them know that the Herald of Andraste is back once again, with the very power Corypheus wants most.” 

Ayla felt all eyes at the table on her. 

“Absolutely not,” Leliana snapped. “If Corypheus gets ahold of the power she holds, he will stop at nothing to get it.” 

At the same time Isabela said, “I’m busting my balls trying to give you advanced warning in case Corypheus sends a fleet, and you want to light a nice shiny beacon that says, hey come get me?” 

“Kirkwall can’t withstand a siege,” Aveline confirmed. “Not with the loss of the Templars, not against magic.” 

Ayla wondered briefly if the Champion had lost her mind - until she saw Merrill’s small smile and realized her plan. She smiled slowly, the brilliance of it dawning on her. “He wouldn’t have to know I’ve been in Kirkwall at all,” she said. “Would he?” 

“Not if we used the Eluvians,” Merrill confirmed. 

“Is there any place behind his lines that’s vulnerable?” Ayla asked. “If we can do something big right on his doorstep, it might make Corypheus trip up-- make a mistake.” 

“And it would rally our potential allies,” Varric said, tipping his head in acknowledgment at Ayla. “It could work.” 

“There’s an ambassador from Tevinter visiting the Winter Palace in a fortnight,” Fenris said, speaking up where he had been silent. “Officially Tevinter hasn’t acknowledged the Venatori, but they’re desperate for an alliance.” 

“You’re going to need more men than we can readily spare to assault the Winter Palace,” Aveline said. “Even if the attack is unexpected and comes from inside, it will be heavily guarded.” 

“Hmm,” Iron Bull said, considering. “Varric, how deep are those pockets of yours?”

Varric squinted at the Qunari suspiciously. “What do you mean, Tiny?”

“The Free Marches is just crawling with mercenary companies,” Bull said with a feral grin. “Let’s see who’s in the area.” 


	12. Sylvas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A spy infiltrates the Winter Palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody! Did you miss me? I have no excuse, other than that my life got crazy right about when I hit a few snags in the plot. I've worked out those snags now, but I apologize for the delay all the same.

Sylvas had been a spy for a very long time.

He had been too clever and too curious for his own good for far too long.

Back when he was a slave in the Imperium, it had been a matter of survival. The servitor of a powerful magister, he had ferreted out secrets and sold them to other magisters for use in their political games. Every time his master struck him, he imagined what secrets he was going to sell-- and the price he would get for them.

That coin served him well when he was found out and had to flee, two steps ahead of execution. A pouchful of coin opened doors on the way south to Nevarra. It afforded him places to sleep that were safe from slave hunters.

Now he used his skills for a nobler purpose. He had a new name, a better name, a name had chosen. A name handed to him by the Dread Wolf himself.

The Winter Palace was a symbolic victory for the Venatori but it was not, as a rule, secure. As big as it was, running it took tremendous manpower. Sylvas slipped down a darkened and empty hallway, navigating by feel until he reached an out of the way closet door which he opened expertly with a lockpick. It was full of clothing in matching cuts and colors, made to blend with party decorations. A coat and breeches and cap were laid out in the middle of the room, and on top of them an iron slave collar with its key.

Sylvas changed quickly, stashing his dark woolen clothes under a mound of green and white fabric. He swallowed the burning revulsion that rose in the back of his throat and fastened the slave collar around his neck, where it hung heavy and cold. The key he tucked securely in his boot, opposite his dagger. With everything straightened he opened the door to the storeroom and walked openly through the halls of the palace. Just another elven slave in a palace full of them.

The Venatori did not have the means to use this place as indolently as the Orlesians had. That did not mean that they did not try. The gardens had been strewn with lanterns just for tonight’s occasion, in the severe style that was popular in Minrathous nowadays. The Venatori had put on a show of populating their conquest, though Sylvas knew that they’d had cultists shipped in from all over just for this event. The rest were the cowed Orlesian court, those who had not fled or resisted but instead bowed and kept a modicum of their wealth and power.

Officially, the Venatori were condemned as a fringe splinter group by Minrathous. Any show of support would draw ire from their southern neighbors and, strapped as they were by warring constantly with the Qunari, they could ill afford it.

In the back rooms and hidden salons of Minrathous’ elite, there was a great deal of support for the Venatori. A strong Southern power sympathetic to Tevinter, even masterminded by a mad darkspawn, could only help the struggling empire. If a key figure from Minrathous were to take several weeks leave to attend an invitation at the Winter Palace, anything that was said would not be officially from Tevinter and therefore would not constitute a formal alliance.

That was the way of the world. No doubt there were spies from Nevarra and the Free Marches, from whatever was left of Orlais that hadn’t bowed to the Venatori’s puppet government, even from Tevinter herself here in the crowd.

Sylvas fell in step behind a slave with an empty tray and followed the girl to the palace kitchens. There he apologized for “forgetting” his own tray and took the verbal dressing down and the tray full of tiny sandwiches both.

He entered the Grand Ballroom through one of the servant’s entrances, slipping into the crowd and circulating with his tray. So early in the evening, few of the gathered were interested in food, which was all to the best. It gave Sylvas time to survey the room.

This gathering was only a weak imitation of the Orlesian nobility’s Grand Game. The Orlesian court might have bowed to the Venatori’s overwhelming show of force, but neither did they put in an effort to appear at social events. The crowd was sparse, and only sycophants currying favor with the puppet empress had bothered to appear.

Empress Florianne presided over everything, flanked by Imperial Guards and courtiers. She smiled and laughed with them as though nothing was wrong, although Sylvas caught her troubled glances in unguarded moments at the size of the crowd. Florianne was not as serene as she seemed.

To her left was a magister, the real reason for tonight’s ball. Magister Marcius had been a well respected member of the Magisterium for thirty years. A Tevinter patriot and a moderate who had argued against involvement with the south before, he was an unimpeachable choice for Tevinter’s unofficial ambassador. Clout enough to make real decisions, but with public politics that put him above suspicion.

He was also a man in constant need of new slaves, for Magister Marcius owned more acreage in sugar cane than any other man in the Imperium, most along the contested coast near the Qunari attacks. He would do well for Tevinter tonight.

Not far from Empress Florianne and Magister Marcius stood the _real_ power in the room. Magister Livius Erimond was ensconced with Orlesian nobles and other Venatori cultists. Erimond had not the grace of Calpernia, nor the menace of Sampson. He moved through the gathered Venatori with the oily grace of a salesman, constantly greasing the wheels. It was the potency of what he sold - the latent threat of Corypheus behind Erimond - that commanded the air of respect he was afforded.

Sylvas drifted in the direction of the magister, offering his tray for perusal and catching glimpses of conversation.

“--two more sizeable shipments of slaves down south, just last week,” Erimond murmured to a man dressed all in white. “You have nothing to worry about, Gordian, I assure you.”

“The Freemen are in disarray, but they will not stay so for long,” Gordian hissed, his anxiety written plainly on his face. “Not if they sense weakness from us.”

Erimond set his hand on Gordian’s shoulder. Sylvas almost could have mistaken it for a comforting gesture, if not for the twist of disgust in Erimond’s mouth and the way Gordian flinched from the touch. “That is why I have you, is it not? Keep them under control.”

A member of the Venatori infiltrating and scattering the Freemen of the Dales, who had played such a crucial role in weakening Orlais, was interesting but it was not what Sylvas had come for. He marked the man’s face and name in his mind and moved on, circling and surveying the small knot of people orbiting Erimond and the empress.

He marked the Grey Warden in silver and blue at the edge of the crowd, dull eyed and speaking to no one. A Fereldan mage shifted uncomfortably next to the Venatori, talking nervously to an Orlesian noble and shooting nervous glances at her Venatori keepers every few seconds. None of Florianne’s ladies in waiting came from a prominent Orlesian family, and they clustered together wide-eyed and tittering.

At the very edge of the ballroom, Sylvas thought he saw movement. He turned his head too quickly, and caught attention.

“You. Slave,” a woman’s voice, directed at him. Sylvas knew better than to look directly at the source, but he caught lilac silk in the Tevinter style. “With the sandwiches, over here.”

Sylvas bowed low and presented his tray, angling so that he could see Erimond over the Tevinter woman’s shoulder. Erimond had made his way to the Empress Florianne’s side and was whispering in her ear.

She took her time perusing the tray. “It’s really a shame, these new slaves,” she said to her companion. “None of them seem to have learned proper manners.”

“Give it time,” the Tevinter woman’s companion said placatingly, this one younger. A younger companion to the old lady, perhaps. “No man can break a horse in a day, and these southron slaves have run wild for a long time.”

“All the more reason to treat them harshly now. If they learn bad habits so early on, they will be so much harder to train,” the older woman said. She reached down with one lilac sleeved hand, tilted Sylvas’ face up by his chin. Her grip was not gentle. “What about you? Surely you must have felt the lack of discipline all your life?”

She was not asking him the question in good faith, Sylvas knew, and so he did not give his honest answer. _I have seen more discipline than you know in my life, and would see it all ended starting with you._ “I live only to serve at the command of the Elder One,” Sylvas murmured. “If the matrona believes this slave lacking in discipline, then it must be true.”

The older woman studied him. Sylvas kept his eyes carefully lowered, his expression carefully neutral. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the midnight blue dress of Empress Florianne, talking to Magister Marcius. Together they disappeared down a side hall.

_Damn._

The older Tevinter woman let Sylvas' chin go, apparently satisfied. She and her companion dithered over the food, and all the while Sylvas counted time by the beats of his heart. What if he missed something crucial, all so some cruel and empty-headed noblewomen could have sandwiches?

He held his bow until the two had picked out their treats and turned back away. Then he stood and openly scanned the room. Florianne and Marcius were nowhere to be found. Erimond was excusing himself from the gathered group of people and, as Sylvas watched, made for the door.

Sylvas followed, quicker than he would have liked, into the back hallways of the Winter Palace. He stowed his tray behind a statue and hoped that it wouldn’t be found for a few hours at least.

Reaching out to Briala, allying with her network of Orlesian elves, and giving her a place to hide had proved fruitful. She had given the Agents of Fen’harel an accounting of all she knew about the Winter Palace, including the hidden passages that many Orlesian nobles didn’t know of. The Venatori would know even less about the palace they had taken over.

He unlocked the door to one of the passages and slipped inside. It was barely wide enough to fit his slender form, and he moved carefully to avoid making any noise. The only light was that which filtered in through nearly invisible slits in the walls.

Sylvas sidled along until he could see Marcius and Erimond and Florianne. He peered out through the tiny crack, finding himself at the perspective of a mantelpiece. As Sylvas watched, Empress Florianne excused herself, saying that she could not be away from the court for long.

“We must speak later, my dear Marcius,” Florianne said, as if she was speaking with an old friend whom she had known for years. “Your visit is so short. But I’m sure you and Erimond have much to catch up on.”

“Perhaps next time I shall plan for a longer visit,” Magister Marcius said. “I must admit I have been charmed by your southern court.”

“See to your court, Empress,” Erimond said, raising her hand and kissing it with a bow, but the order was clear. “Marcius and I can fend for ourselves, I am sure.”

“I will speak to you later, Erimond,” Florianne said, and Sylvas could hear her annoyance at being ordered around. He could even understand it to a degree. _She’s empress and still has to listen to this oily snake?_

“Of course, your Imperial Majesty,” Erimond said. He bid his farewells to Florianne, who swept out of the room, leaving the two magisters to discuss business.

“I do appreciate the hospitality, Erimond,” Marcius said, picking up a wine goblet from a table spread that Sylvas could not see. “However, one Orlesian ball is hardly enough to eliminate my concerns.”

“Marcius, my friend,” Erimond said. Sylvas shifted, but could not find a position where he could see both Erimond and Marcius’ faces. “There is no need for concern. We have all but pacified the south.”

“Rebels running amok in Ferelden, Nevarra calling for your blood, and your so-called god nowhere to be found does not sound pacified to me, Livius,” Marcius said.

“The Elder One has greater concerns,” Erimond said, clipped. “His empire is kept well in hand by we trusted few.”

“And what of Alexius? Murdered in his own home, if the rumors are to be believed.”

Erimond laughed, though Sylvas could hear the strain in it. “Rumors only. Alexius was a sentimental fool, and when his son died of the Blight sickness he turned his magic upon himself. A tragedy, certainly, but hardly a lapse in control.”

Sylvas ground his teeth. Erimond sounded as deeply concerned as a puddle. Sylvas would relish the day the Dread Wolf turned each rotten Venatori to dust.

Nobody knew for sure what had happened to Gereon Alexius, other than that he was dead in his own home mysteriously, on the eve of Corypheus’ visit to Redcliffe. Sylvas did not believe it was suicide as suggested. Perhaps the Fereldan rebels had struck a blow, but they had been remarkably quiet on the whole affair.

“Hm,” said Marcius, not sounding convinced. “There is support for an alliance with this new Orlseian Empress in the Magisterium. Nothing has been openly discussed, of course…”

“Of course.”

“Any open show of support would no doubt bring retribution from Nevarra and the Free Marches. Perhaps Antiva and Rivain as well.”

“The Free Marches are too divided to mount a capable resistance,” Erimond said, dismissively. “As for Antiva and Rivain, the threat of war is unlikely.”

“The Empire cannot war with Qunari, Tal Vashoth rebels, and Nevarra at the same time,” Marcius said plainly. “You have allowed the slave trade routes through Orlais, but that alone is not enough for the Magisterium. But if Empress Florianne was to make an open show of support-- say retake Perendale for Orlais from Nevarra.”

“Ignite a war with Nevarra? You are ambitious, Marcius.”

“It should be little trouble for the force which overran the finest army in Orlais in a matter of days, don’t you think?” There was a beat, presumably while the two Magisters sized up the others resolve. “Consider it, Livius.”

“It is not mine to consider, it is Her Majesty’s,” Erimond said. Marcius scoffed. “And the Elder One’s.”

“While your Elder One stares transfixed by the Fade, the world of real politics moves on. If he were a god as he has claimed, would he not already reside in the Maker’s city?”

“You overstep, Marcius,” Erimond said, icily. “The Elder One is closer than you think to ascending to his rightful place. When he does, such comments shall be looked upon most unfavorably.”

“Of course, I meant no disrespect,” Marcius said, voice quavering. Corypheus must scare him, Sylvas realized, more than he wanted to let on. The ancient magister had upset the balance of power in the South-- how long until he did the same for Tevinter? Sylvas could not help but grinning, wondering how these magisters would quake in the wake of the power of a truly ancient Elven god returned. His voice calmer now, Marcius continued, “I only mean that the Magisterium grows more impatient.”

“If they can keep patient a few months more, we will all see the ancient glory of Tevinter restored,” Erimond said.

“A few months is not something I can take to the Magisterium.”

“Pluitanis, then,” Erimond said, naming the month which corresponded to the Southern month of Guardian, four months hence. “If by the end of that month my promises to you have not come to pass, you may declare me a liar in front of all the Senate.”

There was silence, as Marcius considered. Sylvas considered it too, from his place hiding amongst the shadows. It had come to the attention of other agents of Fen’harel that Corypheus was planning something. He was moving soldiers and slaves and resources to the South. And one of his inner circle was confident enough to promise the end of Guardian…

It was troubling.

“I’m risking a lot for this, Livius,” Marcius said at last.

“And so much that you stand to gain from your risk, Marcius,” Erimond said. “The Tevinter Imperium is on the eve of its second glory, united by a living god. Can you not say that the promise of an Empire that spans all of Thedas once more is not tempting?”

Marcius stroked his chin. “It is tempting,” he said. “It is only that empires are built on armies and slaves and not on promises from gods. Still, I believe I can convince the Senate to wait until Pluitanis.”

There was a thump, and the muffled roar of an explosion, and the floor underneath Sylvas’ feet shook.

“What was that?” Marcius said, looking around. Erimond looked furious. “Orlesian rebels?”

Another shake, and all the windows in the room rattled. “I’ll see what’s going on,” Erimond growled, and he stalked towards the door. “I assure you,” he snapped back at Marcius, “this changes nothing.”

Sylvas began to squeeze his way out of the hidden passage, following Erimond and Marcius out towards the central ballroom. Venatori and soldiers in Orlesian uniform were rushing there as well. Sylvas let them pass by into the elaborate space, instead making his way to a balcony.

Storming the ballroom was a full group of armored warriors, perhaps fifty in total, barring the ballroom doors and battling the Venatori. The Venatori and the Orlesian court fled in front of them, going largely ignored. At the forefront was a Qunari the size of a cart, wielding a massive battleaxe as he fought off palace guards. Two mages flanked him, one in Tevinter robes and the other an elf, Dalish by her tattoos. She held up her hand and the air cracked like a whip. Empress Florianne and her fleeing ladies in waiting stumbled on the ballroom stairs.

Erimond and Marcius ran into the ballroom, flanked by Venatori and Orlesian palace guards. Three went down in a hail of arrows, before they had the chance to form up. Sylvas, looking for an insignia, noticed a patch with two horns mirroring the giant Qunari’s adorning most of the armored warriors.

The Qunari who was now charging into the fray, scattering Venatori and palace guards alike. He was impossibly fast and impossibly strong, and his ferocity seemed to emanate from him in a red glow. He wielded his axe with a gleeful brutality.

He seemed unstoppable, until he was stopped by a shield summoned up by Marcius. The Qunari roared, slammed the shield once with his axe, then whirled around to other opponents. Erimond conjured up a wall of ice in the midst of the warriors, cutting the battlefield in two, with the Qunari on the other side.

His eyes flashed, and a red mist surrounded his fingertips. _Blood magic,_ Sylvas thought, feeling sick. Shades rose from the ballroom tiles, sowing chaos where they stood. Across the ice wall, a warrior that glowed with a bluish-white light leaped into the battle, followed closely by a human mage in armor. She slammed her staff to the ground, and a ring of fire emanated from it, hot enough to incinerate the shades and start the ice dripping. The glowing warrior turned and plunged his fist into the heart of a Venatori mage.

Orlesian palace guard stormed into the ballroom, lining up in a lightning fast formation and unleashing a barrage of crossbow fire. Mercenaries less quick with their shields fell. A dwarf mercenary tossed a ceramic shell amongst the archers, which exploded and scattered them, and other mercenaries rushed to secure the opened door.

A barrage of fire hit Marcius’ shied, and the magister turned towards the mage who had cast it.

“You--” Marcius said, loud enough that Sylvas could hear it even over the battle and the muffled explosions in the distance. “The Pavus boy?”

The mage in Tevinter robes tilted his head and readied his staff. “Old Marcius, what a surprise,” he said. “Give the Magisterium my regards, would you?”

Marcius raised his staff, face twisting. “Traitor!” he snarled, and the floor cracked under the Pavus boy’s feet, who only barely dove out of the way. The dark haired Dalish elf hauled him to his feet, unleashing a ball of electricity that bounced from soldier to soldier before fizzling out against Marcius’ shield.

“Dorian! The shield!”

“Right,” Dorian said. He raised one hand to the air, and the dead rose with it. Or shadows of the dead, wearing shadowy Orlesian uniforms and Venatori robes, to turn on their masters. Dorian batted aside another spell from Marcius and responded in kind with a burst of flame.

Marcius staggered back, shield broken.

The Dalish mage took her chance, throwing out her right hand. Green light began to gather there, and the very air shuddered and shook and then ripped open where Marcius stood. The magister barely had time to scream before reality swallowed him whole. Two shades tumbled after him before the opening in the air closed.

The Dalish mage swayed with exhaustion, leaning on her staff. There was a lull, as all stared at what had transpired. Erimond, battling with three mercenaries and keeping them quite occupied, turned. His eyes bored into the Dalish mage with seething hatred.

The ballroom doors shuddered as something solid hit them from the other side. From across the room an armored warrior with short cropped hair called, “We’re running out of time, boss!”

The Qunari surveyed the room. “Chargers!” he roared. “Fall back in formation!”

The warriors -- the Chargers -- began to move towards one of the ballroom doors. They did so without panic, many still fighting off Winter Palace defenders as they retreated. Erimond snarled a command, and three Venatori formed up behind him and moved to intercept the Dalish mage.

“So,” Erimond drawled, drawing a line of force out in front of him with his staff that bubbled in the air. “The bitch who stole my master’s power, the one they called the Herald of Andraste. You’re supposed to be dead.”

Sylvas’ eyes snapped to the Dalish mage turning to Erimond, lightning crackling at the tips of her fingers. _The Herald of Andraste, alive?_ Sylvas remembered the rumors of the Herald much like a lit candle of hope, one that had been too easily snuffed out by the might of Corypheus. The world that he lived in had moved beyond that fragile optimism.

“It takes a lot more than Gereon Alexius to kill me,” the Herald spat. “And from what I hear, you’re not half the mage he is.”

“So you killed Alexius,” Erimond said. “I should thank you. Why Corypheus ever trusted that whimpering sot I shall never know.” He circled the Herald, only for her to scorch the tile beneath his feet. Shards of stone blasted up from the floor, forcing Erimond to shield himself.

The Herald responded with a blast of force that nearly sent Erimond stumbling. He struggled to his feet, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand. “Fortunately, the Elder One showed me how to deal with you,” Erimond said, raising a hand that shone red with blood magic. “In the event that you ever did return.”

The Herald dropped to her knees, clutching her right hand, which flamed with a green glow. She gasped, sweat standing out on her forehead. The Tevinter mage, Pavus, broke away from the shades he fought and rushed towards her, but he was not close enough to intercept Erimond.

“With that mark you bear, my master will easily be able to access the Fade,” Erimond gloated, raising his staff and approaching the fallen Herald. She struggled to raise her hand, the glow around it flickering madly.  “It will mean months of seeking other means to access the Fade wasted, but I’m sure the Elder One won’t mind. When I bring him your head, his gratitude will be--agh!”

The Herald closed her fist and the air snapped. Erimond toppled, sliding across the floor tiles. Shades closed around him. The Pavus boy reached the Herald and helped her to her feet, and they ran for the rest of the mercenary company.

Sylvas did not stay to see more.

Archers filed past him, ignoring a single elven servant, in their haste to take the balcony Sylvas had just vacated. He had enough presence of mind not to run for the exits like the rest of the panicked crowd, who would be trampling each other in their haste to escape.  He ran instead further into the palace halls.

Sylvas disappeared into the dark shadows of the Winter Palace halls. He could hear shouting and the echo of magic battle, but the hallways he crept through were deserted. How had the Herald of Andraste returned? How had she entered the Winter Palace?

The Dread Wolf needed to know. The unofficial ambasador to the Imperium was dead, the potential alliance delayed. The Venatori’s prize jewel had been attacked at its very heart, while their plaything Empress kept court. The Herald of Andraste held in her hand a way to twist the Fade open.

Things would change after this, for certain.

Briala had given the Agents of Fen’harel more than just knowledge of the Winter Palace’s secret passageways and her network of spies. She had also given an accounting of things to be found in the palace, including one thing tucked away unused in a forgotten storeroom, except by those who knew its true use. Sylvas wandered the halls, backtracking a few times after finding himself in the wrong place, until he found the correct door. Marked by a halla statue over the mantle.

He took a deep breath and slipped into the room.

It was as Sylvas remembered from the last time he’d been in here, cluttered with unused furniture and décor, priceless pieces left unused in a storeroom. The clutter that a palace amassed. He picked his way through the maze of objects, towards a mirror half-covered by a cloth.

Sylvas pulled the cloth back and looked into the mirror. His reflection barely showed in the murky depths. He reached out and touched the glassy surface of the mirror, the passphrase on his lips.

A hand caught the back of his tunic and yanked him back, almost at the same time as the cold edge of a knife found his throat. “What’s the hurry?” said a melodious female voice from behind him. Sylvas kicked out instinctively, aiming for his captor’s knees but she was faster, twisting his hand behind his back so that he could not move.

Sylvas looked up into the face of a ghost, with sunken cheeks and a hollow smile. He fought harder to free himself, only for his captor to flash her blade again.

“I thought I saw someone on the balcony above,” the ghost said in an Orlesian accent, and Sylvas realized that she was a woman. A gaunt and pale woman with red hair that had nearly gone white and a dead look in her eyes. Sylvas shivered. “It seems we have a spy on our hands.”

She reached into a pouch at her belt. Sylvas twisted, trying to get away, but the woman was faster. She tipped a glass vial into his mouth and held his head back with a grip like iron. Sylvas coughed, and sputtered, and began to grow drowsy.

He fell limp, and his eyes slipped shut, and the last thing he saw was the ghost woman’s razor of a smile.


	13. Remnants of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A spy is interrogated, and Ayla has another dream.

Ayla stared, arms crossed, at the unconscious elf currently behind bars. Leliana had fed him a sleeping draught that, she said, would make him more pliable to questioning upon waking. Then, Bull’s Chargers had dragged him through the mirror and brought him back to Kirkwall.

The raid on the Winter Palace had gone quite well. The mark on Ayla’s hand still ached dully from using it as a weapon. Hopefully it was enough to draw Corypheus’ attention from whatever his plans were. With both Erimond and Florianne escaping, it would certainly get back to him.

The spy was unexpected, and perhaps fortuitous. After he succumbed to Leliana’s concoction they found a small treasure trove of items hidden in his clothes. Weapons, items of concealment, and a small glass-carved marble that Dorian was currently examining.

Just outside the open door, Iron Bull and Krem were speaking with Guard Captain Aveline.

“Thank you for the use of your stockade, Guard Captain.”

“Not a problem. Thanks for agreeing to help us, Cremisius.”

“Just Krem, ma’am. I’m just glad we were near enough to help out. It’s not much use being the Chargers without the Bull.”

“Aw, you guys missed me.” Iron Bull slung his arm around Krem’s shoulders. “I’m touched.”

“Of course we did, chief. Nobody else is as big a target as you. We nearly lost Skinner.”

“One year in charge of the company and you’re already losing people, Krem?”

“Nearly, I said nearly. Like what you did with the red, by the way.”

Leliana slipped through the door to the stockade and closed it behind her deliberately. “Shall we get started?” she asked, stepping directly to the door of the cell and unlocking it. Her gaze, direct and piercing, landed on the still unconscious spy as if by sight alone she could discern even his sleeping dreams.

“Wait,” Ayla said, tongue thick with the horrors that she had seen in Redcliffe. “You’re not going to-- don’t torture him. Please.”

Leliana smiled back at Ayla, a thin thing. “If I do this right, I won’t have to.”

It wasn’t precisely the reassurance that Ayla would have liked-- but it was a ressurance, of a kind. She settled back to watch as Leliana woke the elf who jerked suddenly awake, nearly toppling himself in the process. Leliana steadied him with a hand.

“It’s good to see you awake,” she said.

“Wh-?” the elf said, blinking slowly.

“Hello,” Leliana said, smiling at him. Though her smile radiated the warmth of a Chantry mother, the spy backed up nearly to the edge of his cell. He trembled. “I’m sorry we had to put you to sleep. I’m Leliana.”

“Caius,” the elf said, then he frowned and closed his eyes and shook his head. “No, my name is Sylvas. He gave me a new name.”

Ayla raised her eyebrows, surprised. Leliana leaned in, intrigued. “Who gave you a new name, Sylvas?”

Sylvas squinted at her. “I shouldn’t-- I can’t tell you,” he slurred.

“Is he the man you’re spying for, the one who named you?” Leliana asked patiently.

“‘m not a spy,” Sylvas said. “Just a-- just an elf and a slave, that’s all.”

“Sylvas,” Leliana said, harder now. “I don’t appreciate being treated like a fool. We found you trying to enter an eluvian, with a knife in your boot and the key to your collar in your pocket.”

“Was going to escape,” Sylvas said doggedly.

“And yet you escaped after the battle was nearly over,” Leliana said. “Not during, when the confusion was so high and you might be missed. You stayed to watch the outcome. So the question remains, who are you spying for, hmm?”

Sylvas’ eyes flickered away. “Briala, of Halamshiral,” he said.

“Hm,” Leliana said. “I’ve met Briala, you know, and a few of her agents. They don’t tend to stand out much. Not like you, an ex-Tevinter slave with a Dalish name. Who are you spying for?”

Sylvas struggled to glare up at Leliana, his jaw held tight enough Ayla could see the strain from paces away.

“Sylvas,” Leliana said coaxingly. “Who is it you work for? I do not think you have any love for Corypheus. Tell me who he is. We are trying to gather allies to work against him. Perhaps we can help each other.”

Sylvas struggled to stare up at Leliana, to read her. She waited, patient. The silence stretched on so long that Ayla started to itch with restlessness, but still Leliana said nothing. She stood so still her chest hardly seemed to rise or fall.

“He is called Fen’harel,” Sylvas said at last. “The Dread Wolf.”

He stared up at Leliana, as if daring her to contradict him. Ayla was the one who frowned and said, “That’s impossible.”

“I’m sorry,” Dorian said, looking around the room. “I seem to be missing something. Who is this Fen’harel person?”

Ayla shook her head, trying to think of the simplest way to explain something less-than-simple. She’d had arguments with Keeper Deshana that had lasted days. To explain to _shemlen_ in a few sentences? “The Dread Wolf is a god of the Dalish,” she said at last. “He is a trickster and a deceiver. In the stories he locks the Creators in the Beyond and the Forgotten Ones in the Abyss, leaving him alone to walk the earth.”

“A convenient metaphor, perhaps?” Leliana asked, looking back at Ayla. “A god who defeated other gods-- considering Corypheus’ ambitions, it doesn’t seem such a stretch.”

“He’s not a hero, even for defeating the Forgotten Ones,” Ayla said quickly. “He’s a-- he’s a warning, a specter. Bad luck.”

“Bad luck for our enemies, then?” Dorian asked.

Sylvas shook his head emphatically. “I have seen him perform wonders beyond the power of mortal mages. He knows things no mortal could know about Arlathan of old. He closed the Breach in the Fade, and fought Corypheus to a standstill.” His gaze, which had been glassy with the drug, was steady on Ayla. “The Dread Wolf has awoken from his long slumber, and he means to face Corypheus.”

Ayla shuddered, her stomach twisting.

“You’ve been tricked,” she said. She could hear the shake in her voice. Stronger, she said, “The Dread Wolf laughs because you’ve trusted one who wore his name.”

Sylvas only laughed at that. A muddled sound that went on, and on, echoing in Ayla’s ears long after the spy’s breath had run out. “You shall see, Dalish girl. All of the People shall see, in time.”

Ayla clenched her fist, nails digging into the skin just below her mark. She caught Leliana’s eye. “Get what information you can from him,” she said, cold so that they would not see the quaver in her belly. “I don’t need to listen to more lies.”

She turned on her heel and walked out of the room, lightheaded and unsteady. Iron Bull and Krem stood guard over the door, but Ayla said nothing to them or to the curious guards waiting beyond them. She strode blindly down hallways-- did they all need to be made of endless gray stone?-- until she found an alcove furnished with a stone bench. She sank down onto the cool gray stone, put her head in her hands, and breathed slowly as Keeper Deshana had taught her.

Sylvas had to be mistaken. Whoever he served was no doubt a powerful mage. Powerful enough to close the Breach, even, when the whole of the Inquisition had thought that feat impossible. Months of study, perhaps, had brought about a solution. Perhaps if he was familiar enough with the Fade it could be done.

Her belief in the Creators had always been formless. If they had any power in this world it was as stories, told and retold and made as real as stories could be by the belief of generations. Real, in the same way that hope or sadness were real, dwelling as they did in the hearts of the People. Giving them a common story.  

In all of her study-- first as Keeper’s Apprentice, then as an explorer of the wider world, she had seen the hand of Fen’harel in none of the misfortunes of the world. Plain bad luck, yes, and perhaps that was his curse. Or perhaps Fen’harel gave the bad luck meaning to those who suffered it, if they could say the Dread Wolf laughed at them. She had argued in circles this very idea, with Keeper Deshana, with the Keepers and Firsts of other clans.

A real person, who commanded spies, who fought Corypheus, who closed the Breach? That she could not believe.

“There you are.”

Ayla looked up from her hands. Dorian stood at the opening of the alcove, grave concern etched between his brows. She smiled wanly.

“I’m fine,” she said, though she did not feel it.

“You ran out of there like a dragon was at your heels,” Dorian said. He took a seat on the bench next to Ayla. She moved over to make room. “You don’t look very fine.”

Ayla set her head back in her hands. “I’m--” she said, stuck on the words. “It’s…”

“It’s not easy, having the boogeymen of your people suddenly start walking the earth,” Dorian said, voice carefully controlled. Ayla looked up, and saw that his jaw was set hard. “Makes for rather unsteady footing. Doesn’t it?”

Ayla furrowed her brow, before she remembered. Of course. Corypheus was a blighted Tevinter magister, one of the few who had breached the Golden City and unleashed evil upon the world. She hadn’t even considered that it had bothered him.

“Dorian,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Most of Tevinter doesn’t believe that we started the Blights,” Dorian said, still not meeting Ayla’s eyes. “The two are entirely unrelated, according to what I was taught. Just one more thing for the South to blame us for. Unjustly, of course.” He snorted, a demonstration of what he thought of this opinion.

Ayla sighed. She leaned her shoulder against Dorian’s. He put an arm around her shoulders, which she leaned into, grateful for the comfort and the understanding.

“Do you ever feel like this is all a dream?” she asked, quiet. “First Redcliffe and Ferelden, and now we’re in Kirkwall and visiting Orlais and the Dread Wolf and an ancient Tevinter magister are mortal enemies?”

Dorian chuckled. The sound was breathy, lacking real mirth. “I’m glad you said something, really. I didn’t want to be the first to bring it up.”

Ayla smiled, and summoned up a chuckle of her own. “We’ll know it’s really gotten out of hand when darkspawn start dancing through the streets.”

“Now that would be a sight.”

Ayla sighed, the heaviness draining out of her with her breath. “Do you think we’ll ever get back?” she asked.

“I hope so,” Dorian said. He hugged Ayla around the shoulders tighter, just a small bit of reassurance. “I’m working on it. That’s as much as I can say.” He frowned. “Alexius’ notes are a bit of a mess, I’m afraid.”

Ayla raised her eyebrows, curious.

“We worked out most of the theory together, Alexius and I,” Dorian explained, a faraway look in his eyes. Ayla remembered the black fire, that had kept on burning as Alexius died. “As for the actual implementation… we had a lot of ideas. What would resonate best with the Fade, to allow a person to wield it to bend the fabric of time? Clearly it worked, but the notes aren’t at all clear on what he actually used to do it.”

Dorian grinned, rueful.

Ayla matched his smile. “Of course it couldn’t be easy,” she said with a small sigh. She nudged him with her shoulder. “You’ll tell me if you find something?”

“Of course,” Dorian said.

\--

Ayla stood on a hill overlooking an unfamiliar town. The houses-- each composed of beautiful open arches and impossible curves-- stood arrayed in a spiral at the center of which lay nestled a patch of green. A garden. A light wind blew through abundant sassafras trees, carrying their sweet scent through the warm air. No people were out and about enjoying such a beautiful day.

From this vantage she could see the road that stretched beyond the village, to join a network of roads miles off. She could see the low lying river feeding into the lake, impossibly cool and blue and surrounded by green. She could see the great bowl of the sky, dotted with white clouds, and the tiny birds zipping by.  

Below Ayla on the hill stood the only person for miles.

Solas looked out over the town. Wistful and quiet, his eyes far away. He had not yet seen or heard her.

“Solas,” Ayla said, clear against the placidity of the day.

He turned, lips parting over an unsaid word. His eyes widened a fraction, just enough to convey his surprise.

Ayla smiled despite the flutter in her belly. The last time she had seen Solas in a dream like this was etched into her memory. She could not have forgotten the searing warmth of his kiss had she tried, and she did not wish to forget.

She stepped down the hill towards him, only to find his hands out and waiting for hers. Solas shuddered when her fingers found his, as if he had not expected this. He did not pull away as Ayla feared, only raised her hands up and swept his gaze over them as he explored each finger with his own.

She smiled, shakily.

Solas’ eyes flickered up, away from Ayla’s hands and to her eyes. “It truly is you,” he said, and he could not keep the astonishment from his voice.

“I didn’t think I would see you again,” Ayla admitted. “Not after-- not after last time.”

Solas frowned, looked away. An acknowledgement of what had transpired the last time she had dreamed. “I did not mean to seek you out again,” he said. “The Fade has a habit of reacting, even to subconscious desires better left unexplored.”

“Whose desire?” Ayla asked. “Mine, or yours?”

Solas smiled. A faint thing. “Does it matter?” he asked. He tilted his head towards the village below. “Mine, I think. I was dreaming of… simpler times.”

Ayla followed Solas’ gaze down to the unfamiliar village. “Where are we?”

“A place very far from here, one which exists this way only in memory,” Solas said, that wistfulness filling him once again. “I grew up here.”

Ayla swept her eyes over the gentle hills, the spiral streets of the village, the sassafras trees, the low lying river. There was a hunger to her gaze, a desire to know as much as she could about Solas, who had revealed so little of his past to her.

“It’s beautiful,” Ayla said, her smile soft. “And peaceful. It seems like the perfect place to grow up.”

“It was too small for me,” Solas said with a wry laugh. “Too isolated for a man of my-- ambitions. It was only long after I left it behind that I realized how much I truly missed it.” He shook his head, to banish the melancholy. “It is only empty nostalgia, nothing else.”

Ayla squeezed Solas’ hand tighter with hers. “I didn’t think I would miss my clan, until I left,” she said, quiet, her thoughts on all of the people she had left behind. For a moment they stood in the air in front of her, as clear as her memories. “I wanted to wander the world, to learn. Now I don’t know if they’re even still alive.”

She closed her eyes against the sudden emotion of it, welling up hot in her chest.

Solas held Ayla’s hand tight in his. His other hand he reached up, to brush her hair gently away from her face. His fingers lingered, etching comfort where they passed, and his smile was soft but sad.

“This has been hard on you,” Solas said.

Ayla breathed out, hard. “Not just on me.”

“You are still allowed to grieve your hardship.”

Ayla took another deep breath to steady herself. “Thank you,” she said, and smiled deliberately. “I’m glad you’re here. The more I learn of this world, the less I think I understand it.”

Solas looked curious, and so Ayla told him what had happened to her since jumping forward through time. About the horror of Redcliffe, and traveling north and meeting Hawke. About the raid on Halamshiral and her duel with Erimond. She told him of drawing on the power of the rifts, of using the power in her hand to rip into the Fade and kill the Tevinter ambassador and end the budding alliance between the Venatori and their northern cousins. All to draw Corypheus’ attention.

“Are you sure that was wise?” Solas asked, when she told him. “Baiting the ire of a creature of such ancient power-- you may not yet know all the consequences to such actions.”

Ayla shook her head. “Corypheus is planning something down south, and whatever it is it can’t be good. If we want to get his attention, make him slip up somehow, we need to have something that he wants.”

Solas said nothing, only turning over Ayla’s hand and drawing his thumb anxiously over the mark.

“I am being cautious,” Ayla said, smiling encouragingly in response to Solas’ deep frown. “I know what it would mean if Corypheus got ahold of this mark, for me and for all of Thedas. I’m not keen to let that happen.”

The furrow in Solas’ brow did not smooth, and he did not drop Ayla’s hand. Nonetheless he prompted her to continue. She told of the spy Iron Bull had encountered, about to travel through the mirror. About her fear that Leliana might resort to cruelty after what she had seen in Redcliffe.

“She didn’t,” Ayla assured him. “She only drugged him to make him more pliant. But what he said-- who he said he worked for. It was impossible, but he believed it so deeply.”

“Who did this spy say he worked for?” Solas asked.

“Fen’harel,” Ayla said. “The Dread Wolf.”

Solas went unnaturally still. Even his fingers, which had worn a steady path on her palms over the last half hour, stopped moving. He looked as if he had stopped breathing.

“The Elven god of misfortune,” Solas said, after an interminable silence.

Ayla nodded. She wondered if he was as surprised as she had been. “I know, it’s absurd,” she said, a sharp laugh spitting from her mouth as if that would banish the way her hair prickled at the back of her neck. “Sylvas said that this Fen’harel closed the Breach, that he fought Corypheus.”

“Commendable feats both, if true,” Solas said lightly. He pulled his hands away from Ayla’s, leaving her fingers aching for the loss of touch. “It would take powerful magic indeed to do either.”

Ayla narrowed her eyes at Solas. “Do you really believe he is Fen’harel, then?” she asked, disliking the suspicion that curled knots in the bottom of her stomach.

“I believe that strange and momentous times are upon this world,” Solas said with a half smile. “Perhaps there is even some element of truth that underlies Dalish superstition. Who can say?” He shrugged.

Ayla shook her head, still unmoved by Solas’ enduring skepticism. “Leliana thinks that he’s using the name,” she said. “As a way to frighten Corypheus.”

“Leliana is a very shrewd woman,” Solas murmured. He smiled, a soft and sad thing, and met Ayla’s eyes at last. “I do not have a satisfactory answer for you, it seems. Perhaps the real Fen’harel walks this world once more. Perhaps he is only a powerful mage wearing a borrowed name. Perhaps the truth lies somewhere between.”

Ayla caught Solas’ hand in hers once again. “No,” she said quietly. “It helps to hear, even if it’s not-- exactly what I would like.”

Solas’ smile grew by fractions. “I have faith in your ability to discern the truth,” he said. “It is one of your more admirable qualities.”

Ayla inclined her head. “Admirable qualities, hm?” She grinned at him.

Solas turned his head away, another deflection. Ayla gripped his hand tighter, so that he could not pull away entirely. He turned back, his face open with surprise. Hesitation was there too. “We shouldn’t,” he said, though he did not move away when Ayla stepped closer. Close enough that she could feel his warmth in the warm air. “It wouldn’t be right.”

He meant to pull away again, in that frustrating way he had, as if he believed it was what was best for her. She didn’t care what he thought was best for her, she wanted to scream.

“I’m not going to rush you, Solas,” she said, looking up at him. “If you don’t want this, don’t want me, then tell me so. But I heard what you called me when we last spoke.”

_“Vhenan,”_ Solas breathed. Ayla did not know if it was a statement of a plea.

She only stood still, her breathing shallow and her heart racing, as she waited on him to make a move. Once more Solas’ hands slipped from hers. Still Ayla did not move. This would be his choice to make.

Solas cupped her face gently with his hands, thumbs skimming her cheekbones and fingers in her hair. Her flesh felt alive where he touched it. The look in his eyes alone was enough to reduce Ayla to jelly.

Slowly, deliberately, Solas closed the distance between his mouth and hers. He kissed with that same deliberate slowness, lips covering hers while his hands drew Ayla in even closer. She responded eagerly, mouth opening for him, an opportunity that he seized on. Ayla shuddered agreeably all over as he teased her mouth with his tongue.

Solas pulled back from the kiss. Not far, just enough to catch their breath. Ayla smiled up at him, still breathless and dazed.

“Do not think that I don’t want this,” Solas said softly. “That could not be further from the truth.” He pressed his lips to hers again. Less passion this time, but it did not fail to make Ayla warm all over.

“What was I supposed to think?” Ayla asked, coy. “You kept pulling away.”

“It is still-- not a good idea. It would be kinder in the long run to stay away,” Solas said. Ayla raised her eyebrows, wondering if he was going to pull away again, after all that. But Solas only shook his head. Smiled ruefully. “It seems that I cannot stay away. When I thought that you had died, I found the world was poorer without you in it.”

Hot pain seized Ayla’s heart for what he had endured. “I’m glad you found me again,” she said.

Solas smiled, but it was full of sorrow. “So am I,” he said. And then, as deliberately as he had kissed her, he said, “ _Ar lath ma Vhenan.”_

Ayla smiled, though it was watery. “I don’t want to wake up,” she said, the ache already beginning in her chest. “I know that when I do, you won’t be there.”

Solas reached up and smoothed her hair again. “I will find you again,” he said. “I promise.”

“Good,” Ayla said. She looked out over the gentle hills and the spiral village tucked neatly between them, the road and the gentle stream. She felt the sun warm on her skin and smelled the sassafras in the air. This place was a part of him, a place that he missed. A place that she wanted to know. “Will you show me where you grew up, while we have time?”

And Solas nodded, and smiled, and led her down the hill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how about that actual Solavellan content huh?


	14. Lyrium Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian speaks to Fenris, Leliana reveals her plans for the captured spy, and Iron Bull visits the Hanged Man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a task and a half to write, so apologies for the delays! Three rewrites later, here it is. Hope you enjoy!

Ayla woke with a smile on her face and a warmth that could not be stifled by the cold stone of the Viscount’s Keep. The dream once again felt so real. It did not slip away as dreams so often could, instead lingering in her thoughts. She could still smell the sweet sassafras in the air. 

It was barely light outside, and most of the Keep was still abed. She was to meet with Varric and Hawke later in the morning, to discuss next steps, but until then she had a few hours to herself. She dressed and left her room, needing something other than the stone walls of the Viscount’s Keep. 

As she searched for a garden, Ayla grew more convinced that it could be real. Solas was an expert in the Fade, and in dreams. He could have slipped through into hers. The problem was she had no way of knowing for sure. She pondered ways to test. 

If Solas were a demon, there were a few tricks she knew. She should try them next time, just to be sure a desire demon wasn’t stalking her in the Fade, but short of that Ayla’s ideas were sparse. 

Raised voices from down the hall drew Ayla from her thoughts. 

“ _ Vishante kaffas _ !” swore one, unmistakably Dorian’s voice. Ayla quickened her steps on hearing it. “Why must you be so difficult?” 

“This slave’s apologies for being difficult, magister.” The second voice, rougher and deeper, was drenched in bitter sarcasm. Fenris. “How shall I best please you magister?” 

“That’s not-- I didn’t mean it like that!” Dorian said hotly. “Sacred Andraste, I’m trying to apologize to you!” 

“I don’t want an apology from you,” Fenris growled. 

“What was done to you was beyond conscience. I only thought--”

“Any apology I needed I took in blood. I don’t need  _ your _ weak attempt.” 

“If we’re to work together going forward…” Dorian started. 

“I will work with you, mage. And the moment you prove yourself like the rest of your brethren, I won’t hesitate. So far I see little difference.” That hung in the air, an accusation that Dorian had no rejoinder for. Fenris broke the hush, at last. “Spare your  _ conscience _ elsewhere.” 

Fenris turned the corner, nearly knocking Ayla over as he went. He scowled at her, but passed by and said nothing. 

She found Dorian sitting down on a stone bench, head in his hands. 

“That could have gone better,” Ayla said, announcing her presence and joining the mage in the garden. 

Dorian looked up. “Oh, mercy,” he said. “You saw that.” 

“Heard, mostly,” Ayla said. She sat down on the bench, and Dorian moved over to make room for her. “I don’t think you’re going to win any favors there.” 

“Probably not,” Dorian agreed, rueful. He sighed and leaned back on the bench. “I know who he is, do you know that? Never directly, I was too busy living a life of debauchery back then, but Fenris is famous back home.” 

Ayla frowned. “Because of the Champion?” 

“Not quite,” Dorian said. “How do I explain this? Hm. You know those white marks he has?” 

Ayla nodded. “They light up when he fights.” 

“They’re lyrium,” Dorian said. “A fortune’s worth. A magister named Danarius wanted to prove he could graft lyrium into living flesh. That he could create a living source of lyrium for his personal use, that never ran dry because it grew as flesh might.” 

Ayla stared, aghast. “So he used a slave?” 

“What better tool to use than the tool one already owns?” Dorian said. He shook his head. “I don’t agree with it but. Anyways-- Danarius sank a fortune into his experiment, and it worked. Until all that lyrium grew a free will and ran away, and it bankrupted him. Whatever he had left of his fortune he sank into recapturing his lost slave, until it killed him.” 

Ayla frowned, brow furrowing in confusion. “And that made Fenris famous?” 

“A cautionary tale for the rest of us,” Dorian said. “And like any other court full of sharks, we love to see one of our own brought low.” 

“Charming,” Ayla said, dry. 

“He wasn’t entirely wrong, you know,” Dorian said. “I spent my life trying to defy what the Imperium wanted of me-- what my  _ father _ wanted of me. In the end though, I’m not all that different from the rest of them.” 

Ayla reached out, set her hand on Dorian’s shoulder. He looked up, smiled at the touch. “You’re different enough,” she said. “You’re here, aren’t you? You’re helping us fight Corypheus.” 

“Hm,” Dorian said. His smile grew. “There’s a thought. Corypheus today, all of Tevinter tomorrow.” 

“There,” Ayla said, grinning. “Simple.” 

Dorian chuckled, his melancholy appearing banished. “What about you? What are you doing up so early?”

Ayla considered telling him about her dream, about the way it had seemed almost real when she woke up. She dismissed the idea. She couldn’t explain it and what had happened in the dream-- it was private. 

“I just needed some air and greenery,” Ayla said, looking around at the carefully curated garden. “I’m sure I’ll get used to all the stone at some point.” 

“There’s that rustic Dalish charm,” Dorian said. Ayla made a face, but took Dorian’s hand when he offered it to her. “Come, I believe Leliana wanted to speak to you when you awoke, so I’m sure you’ll want a hearty breakfast first.”

Ayla rolled her eyes. “Leliana’s not so bad.”

“No?” Dorian said, dark eyes twinkling. “Then do you wish to go meet her on an empty belly?”

“…Point.”

\--

“Does he really work for Fen’harel?” Merrill asked, leaning around the corner of the stockade hallway to peer at Sylvas in his cell at the very end. The captured spy had been provided bedding and food and had made himself comfortable with a book. It looked like one of Varric’s.

“You’ll have plenty of time to look at him later,” Leliana admonished, pulling Merrill away from the corner. Ayla couldn’t help grinning. “Focus.”  

“Oh, sorry” Merrill said, ducking back around the corner and into the city guard’s office, lent to them once again by Aveline. Leliana pulled the heavy oak door separating the offices from the stockade closed for good measure. 

“How should I know?” Leliana said, shrugging. “He certainly believes he does, and I don’t know enough about Elven gods to refute it.”

“That’s why you want us to talk to him,” Merrill said, nodding at Ayla. If anyone in all of Kirkwall could suss out whether or not Sylvas worked for the Dread Wolf or not, it would be two mages trained as Firsts for their clans.

“Precisely,” Leliana said.

Ayla glanced down the hallway, picturing the way Sylvas’ face had appeared when she’d confronted him about Fen’harel. Slack-jawed and wide-eyed from the drugs Leliana had fed him, laughing uncontrollably.

It had unnerved her. All of the stories she’d heard about Fen’harel’s cunning and trickery had come into her head and overwhelmed her. But she had never seen evidence of Fen’harel nor any of the other Elven gods in the world before this.

“Did he say anything yesterday that we should know?” Ayla asked Leliana quietly.

“Hmm. Let’s see,” Leliana said, tapping her chin with one forefinger. “Fen’harel—or whoever he truly is—has allied with Briala and her network of Orlesian spies. Some of her agents remained behind as slaves in the Winter Palace. They helped smuggle him in. A few Dalish clans are helping out as well—though they don’t have a network of spies.”

Ayla frowned. “Dalish clans? Working with the Dread Wolf?”

“Clan Thelassan and Clan Nahris.”

Merrill furrowed her brow. “I’ve never heard of them.”

“We traded with Clan Nahris occasionally at Arlathvhen,” Ayla said. “They’re from the far east, nearly the Anderfels. I don’t know about Thelassan.”

“They’re an Orlesian clan, and a very isolated one,” Leliana said. “Most likely displaced by Corypheus. Even I don’t know much about them.” She looked frustrated.

“Anyone else?”

“Freed Tevinter slaves, like Sylvas. Displaced Elves from Orlesian and Fereldan alienages. Sylvas indicated that there might be an arrangement of mutual benefit with the Carta, but that sounds shaky. I’ve asked Varric to look into it already, but I don’t think it’s a viable lead.”

“The Carta?” Ayla asked, puzzled. “Why would they work with an Elven god?”

“They may not know who he is claiming to be. I imagine they’d work with anyone who had a shot of taking down Corypheus,” Leliana said. “He’s bad for business. Orzammar closed its gates the moment Corypheus conquered Orlais and they won’t open them for any reason which makes smuggling lyrium out… tricky. And Corypheus poached their best customers.”

“Charming,” Ayla said. 

“Far better to have the Carta working against Corypheus than with him,” Leliana said practically. She shuffled a few pages of notes together and took up a quill. “Find out what you can from our guest. Find out if he’d be willing to consider brokering an alliance.” 

Ayla glanced back down the hallway towards where Sylvas was being held, Solas’ words from her dream still fresh in her mind.  _ Strange and momentous times are upon this world.  _ Could Sylvas truly work for a returned Fen’harel? A shiver ran down her spine. What might an alliance with the Dread Wolf cost them?

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Merrill asked, sounding as unsure as Ayla felt. “The Dread Wolf isn’t… a very nice god.” 

Leliana’s eyes narrowed. “Nice or not-- anyone powerful enough to close the Breach who opposes Corypheus, I want on our side,” she said plainly. “Nevarra might refuse to help us. I want to keep our options open.”

“Even if we’re trading in one evil for another?” Ayla asked. 

“Is the Dread Wolf evil?” Despite Leliana’s innocent tone, Ayla felt a shiver go up her spine. “In all the Elven stories I have heard, he seems more ambivalent. Regardless, that is what I am relying on you to figure out.”

\--

Iron Bull had fallen into something of a comfortable routine in Kirkwall. Since reconnecting with the Chargers, he had taken it upon himself to whip them back into shape. Not that Krem had done a bad job, though he was a soft hand with the newer recruits. A year of absence hadn’t affected them as much as he would have thought.

Varric could grumble all he liked about the expense of paying them coming out of his coffers, Bull was proud of his crew. There were plenty of merc bands that would fall to pieces as soon as they lost a little bit of leadership. Sure they’d lost one or two, new recruits from just before the Inquisition, but the core was still there. 

He was going to have to give Krem a hefty raise.

They were all preparing for their departure to Starkhaven in a few days. Bull and the Chargers had been tapped to escort the refugees, which was familiar work for the company. Certainly easier than invading the Winter Palace, and his boys had pulled that one off. Leliana would leave to Nevarra, bearing a letter from the Viscount of Kirkwall and the Prince of Starkhaven. Perhaps that would be enough for an alliance. Bull hoped so. Ayla would go to Wycome, along with Merrill and Dorian. The Vint mage was hoping to find some books to help in deciphering the mess of time travel magic there. It raised the little hair Iron Bull had, every time he thought about it.

There was one thing Bull had to do before leaving the city, however, and there was no better time to do it than while Leliana was busy with Ayla and Merrill and their captured spy. Bull wasn’t hiding his activities from the bard, but a sense of decorum as a spy at least demanded that he attempt to be discreet. 

Bull had wandered a lot during their two week stay in Kirkwall. Curiosity, mostly, in getting a sense of the place. He’d never visited, even when it was the largest Qunari conclave south of Seheron. The Tome of Koslun was an important religious artifact, sure, but not one that was the concern of Hissrad. Back then, he’d still been working for Fisher’s Bleeders and establishing himself in the South. 

Kirkwall was a city stratified, literally. The nobles and upper class lived at the top, in Hightown, and it only got lower from there. Bull had wandered Lowtown and Darktown and seen the thin division that kept some of the merchants and workers out of the slums below. 

He’d seen the Qunari compound and imagined the old Arishok sitting there for years, never smiling. He’d seen the Gallows, battle scarred and empty of Templars and mages. Instead the tower now housed refugees brought north by Hawke and her companions. He’d ventured into the Alienage and the docks and the ruins of the Chantry. 

What he’d found was a big fucking city, not too dissimilar from any other city, full of a lot of nervous people. Bull couldn’t blame them, with that monster lurking down south. People had to be wondering what could come next. 

It did make him nervous, though. Scared people could do a lot of stupid shit. Just the way the world worked. 

Iron Bull left the Viscount’s keep, alert to any alarm after the Winter Palace. There wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, it seemed. It remained to be seen whether their bait had worked, and whether Corypheus even knew that what he wanted was here. It had only been a day.

Perhaps it was good that Ayla would be getting out of the city for a few days while traveling with the Vint.

Walking just about anywhere as he was usually drew stares, but in Kirkwall they seemed far more hostile. Funny, since the Free Marches had plenty of Tal Vashoth, but then he supposed the Tal Vashoth got those looks too. Bull ignored them, and made his way into the tavern whose sign was a man hanging by his ankle. They’d added a second one since, that read, ‘The Viscount’s Preferred Tavern’. 

The tavern was full of the typical sorts of patrons for a bar at sundown, raucous and drunk and involved in their drinking or their dicing. A few looked up and stared at the giant Qunari wandering into the establishment. Fortunately, Bull wasn’t trying not to be seen when he sat down at a table by himself. 

He’d only just flagged down a drink when an elf sat across the table. 

“Hissrad,” the elf said, smiling Bull’s way and ordering his own drink. “I got your letter.” 

Bull broke into a grin. “Gatt!” he boomed, delighted. “I didn’t know they’d send you my way.”  

He’d saved Gatt from slavery in Seheron and helped him to become Ben-Hassrath, and they had done plenty of work together since. If Bull could be said to have an old friend, Gatt was probably the oldest. 

“The Ben-Hassrath wanted to make sure it was you,” Gatt explained. “You’ve been out of communication for quite a while.” 

Bull eyed Gatt speculatively. “I was captured and tortured,” he said plainly. Best to spell it out simply, in case the Ben-Hassrath were getting any ideas. They tended to do that, especially when it was possible that an agent had turned. “Makes it hard to send a letter.”

“I know that, Hissrad,” Gatt said quickly. “Still wanted to make sure it wasn’t some type of trap. I’m glad that you’re… alive.” 

“Me too.” 

“What happened to you?” Gatt asked, and Bull could see the stare. Right at the omnipresent red glow of his gray skin. The Vint Mage-- Dorian-- had suggested that it might go away with time and less exposure, but so far Bull hadn’t noticed any change. “How did you--”

“Red lyrium,” Bull said, shifting a little. He didn’t like to think of the changes just being exposed to the stuff had wrought, even though there were reminders everywhere. There were some beneficial effects. He was on the whole faster and stronger than before, but that too made him nervous. Bull reached into his satchel and pulled out a folded letter, which he slid across the table to Gatt. “It’s all in the report.” 

Gatt took it, cautious of the faint red aura. “I’ll get this where it needs to go,” he promised. “The Qunari are all very concerned by everything that’s going on down south. Especially the red lyrium.”

Bull raised an eyebrow.

“They’ve started importing it into Seheron and other places, feeding it to their slaves,” Gatt explained. “As if Seheron wasn’t bad enough, add half-mad violent addicted warriors to the mix.” 

Bull ground his teeth. “Fucking Vints.” 

“And if they make an alliance with the Venatori and Corypheus--”

“They won’t,” Bull interrupted. “The Tevinter go-between-- Magister Marcius-- is dead. I saw it happen.”

Gatt’s eyes widened. “How--” 

“All in the report,” Bull said again. “Now, what else can you tell me?” 

Gatt shook his head, and Bull immediately knew that he wouldn’t like what Gatt had to say. “Nothing,” the Ben-Hassrath agent said. “That’s all I’m permitted to tell you.” 

Bull narrowed his eye at Gatt. “What do you mean?” 

Gatt immediately looked guilty. “I can’t give you any Ben-Hassrath reports, not until we’re able to determine that you haven’t been compromised in some way.”

Bull slammed his cup down on the table, red anger clouding his vision, surprising even him with its vehemence. “Dammit, Gatt,” he growled. “I give you a full report, and you can’t even give me a fucking status update? The Venatori didn’t break me they just did  _ this _ .” Iron Bull gestured at the crimson glow. 

“ _ That _ ,” Gatt said frankly, “makes me more nervous, not less Hissrad. Look, the report will help, give it time and I’m sure Viddasala will come around. They’re just still concerned that you’re going to abandon the Qun.”

Iron Bull growled. “Of all the stupid-- look, I’m fine, I’m me, I’m not taken over or compromised. You can take that back to the Viddasala.”

“I will,” Gatt said, standing up. He seemed pained, someplace between sad and guilty, even as he tucked Iron Bull’s report away and remained silent about the goings on in the rest of the world. He stopped, two steps from the table. “Maraas kata, Hissrad.”  

Bull drained his drink, irritable. “Yeah, yeah, we’re not fucking finished,” he grumbled. 

He scowled. The Viddasala didn’t trust him. That alone wasn’t news-- the Viddasala had been wary of the amount of time Iron Bull had spent in the South for a while now. It still rankled, a little bit, to still not be trusted with his role. Really, he should just be grateful that the Viddasala hadn’t ordered him back to Par Vollen immediately. She must really be concerned about Corypheus or she would have. 

He set down his cup and signed, just as a dwarf wearing an open waistcoat took Gatt’s abandoned seat. “So. Trouble at home, Tiny?” Varric asked. 

“Varric,” Bull said, though his grin was half-hearted. “I saw you listening in at the bar. You’re not wearing your shiny crown.” 

“The circlet is a little inconspicuous. Anyway I’m touched,” Varric said, putting a hand over his heart. “You chose my favorite bar for your little spy meeting. You  _ do _ want us to trust you.” 

Iron Bull snorted, though it wasn’t untrue. “Did Red send you?” 

Varric furrowed his brow “Who’s-- wait, Leliana?” Bull nodded. “That’s your nickname? That’s atrocious. Just because her hair is-- You could at least come up with something imaginative.” Varric crossed his arms, offended. 

“You call Fenris ‘elf’.”

“Well, I tried calling him ‘Broody’ for a while, but he kept going for that big sword,” Varric said. “No, she didn’t send me, though I imagine she knows you’re here.” 

“She read my report last night,” Bull said plainly. He’d done her the courtesy of leaving it out. Another one of those shows of trustworthiness. “If there was anything in there she minded the Qunari knowing, she didn’t say.”

“Hm,” Varric murmured. “Well that’s not why I’m here. Actually, I have something I want to show you. Come on.” 

Varric stood up from the table, made eye contact with the bartender-- by which Bull inferred that their drinks were already paid for, probably out of the Viscount’s treasury. Good enough for him. He followed Varric out. 

“So,” Bull said, as they ascended from Lowtown back to Hightown, heading for the Viscount’s Keep, “what is it you have to show me?” 

“Patience, Tiny,” Varric said. 

“Oh, goody. Secrets. I  _ hate _ secrets.” 

“A spy who hates secrets. You are just full of contradictions.” 

They climbed the long stairway to the Keep, at which point Varric put his circlet back on. “I had a new one made,” he explained. “The previous Viscount was wearing his when his head-- uhh-- came off.” 

“You can say he was executed by the Arishok,” Iron Bull said, nodding at the bowing guards as they passed. “I promise, I won’t be offended.” 

Varric looked up at Bull, surprised. “Sure, we’ll go with that,” he said. “You know I’m surprised your Ben-Hassrath friend didn’t ask about the Tome of Koslun or Isabela. She really got their goat the last time they were here in Kirkwall.” 

Bull shrugged. “The Tome is old news,” he said. “Your friend Hawke won a duel for the pirate. Every Qunari in the South knows that, we’re not interested in starting another war. As long as Isabela doesn’t steal anymore Qunari artifacts-- she’s good.” 

“That’s asking a lot of Isabela,” Varric murmured. Iron Bull only chuckled. 

Once in the Viscount’s Keep, they followed a flight of stairs downwards, and then another further down. There were no windows down here, and Bull was certain that they were below the soil of Kirkwall. Perhaps even in the same strata of earth as Darktown. There were few torches down here, and even fewer doors.

“Careful, Varric,” Bull joked, to mask the edge in his voice. “You’re not going to throw me in another underground dungeon, are you?” 

“Relax, Tiny. I only do that to people I don’t like.” 

“And you like me, right Varric? Right?” Varric didn’t answer, only drew out a ring of keys from his waistcoat and unlocking the iron-reinforced door they stood in front of. It swung open, revealing an empty dark room with another door just beyond. Iron Bull scowled. “I’m hurt, Varric. That’s hurtful.” 

Varric only chuckled, and lit two torches set at the doorway. One he passed up to Iron Bull, the other he kept for himself. Then Varric chose another key on the keyring and crossed to the other door. This door was made of steel, and set into the very walls of the Keep. It looked very secure.

“No offense Tiny,” Varric said, pausing at the vault door, sounding suddenly grim. Bull studied the normally sanguine dwarf curiously. “But I’m gonna need you to turn around. Only two people know the trick to entering this vault-- me, and the person who built it.” 

“Is this where you keep all your dirty secrets? Assassination orders, the Viscount’s personal treasure? Your first drafts?” 

Varric laughed. “Don’t I wish,” he said, motioning at Iron Bull to turn around. 

The Qunari obliged, though he listened to the sound of the vault being opened. It sounded, from the chunks and clicks of moving machinery, like an eight step process to open. What exactly was Varric protecting that needed this kind of security? 

“Alright, you can turn around now,” Varric said, voice a whisper that echoed in the empty room. 

Iron Bull turned around. Varric held his torch aloft, the light glimmering off something red and lustrous at the center of the vault. It wasn’t as large as some of the red lyrium crystals Iron Bull had seen at Redcliffe, but it was strangely shaped as if it had been carved. The torchlight cast a shadow on the back wall of the vault, the shape of a human woman screaming to the sky, surrounded by bloody red. 

“Varric,” Bull said slowly. “Is that a red lyrium statue?” 

Varric nodded. “Meet Knight Commander Meredith Stannard,” he said. “Or all that’s left of her, anyways.” 

Iron Bull had heard the stories, as had just about everyone in Southern Kirkwall. Meredith Stannard had been the Knight Commander of the Kirkwall Circle of Magi. A rigid and uncompromising Templar, when magical troubles began to mount in the city she tried ever harder to control them, only for the troubles to boil over spectacularly. She was the Knight Commander who had declared the Right of Annulment on the Kirkwall Circle. The Champion of Kirkwall took up arms against the Templar Order and killed Meredith and sparked the Mage Rebellion. 

Not a story that Bull cared about particularly. Just another Southern mage thing. From the reports of the old Arishok, Kirkwall was like a sealed barrel of gaatlok: just waiting for something to explode. The Mage-Templar thing that it inspired was more important to keep an eye on. 

He hadn’t expected to see this. 

“My brother Bartrand brought up a Red Lyrium idol from an ancient thaig,” Varric explained. “Probably the first piece anyone ever found, though I don’t know that for sure. It drove him insane. That idol became the most precious piece of treasure he’d ever found, and even after he sold it it destroyed him.” Varric sighed, over some old and painful piece of personal history. 

Bull had never had siblings that he knew of, no Qunari did, but he’d been raised with others in the care of the tamassrans. He’d worked with others in the Ben-Hassrath for a long time. What would it be like, to see someone he’d trusted and grown up with, twisted by all that shit?

Was that how Gatt saw him back there? The thought hit him like an axe in the stomach. 

Bull pushed the burning discomfort of Gatt’s opinions away. He still had his own mind. The Chargers didn’t seem to care that he glowed faintly. 

“So,” Bull said, following Varric’s story to the statue in the vault, “your brother sold the Idol to the Knight Commander?” 

“Just so,” Varric said. He stared at the statue, almost as if it could stare right back at him.  _ Creepy.  _ “She made a sword out of it. I think it drove her mad too, but not in the same way it did Bartrand. Granted she was always a bit of a fanatic, but I think it gave her that little push she needed over the edge.” 

Bull raised his eyebrows, understanding settling in. “So, drive the zealous leader of an already unstable city mad and--”

“Boom,” Varric summarised. “It sang to Bartrand, and to Meredith too. To me a little bit, when I found a fragment that Bartrand held onto. I think the idol Bartrand found was-- refined, somehow, or more potent than the stuff that’s growing in the wild but that doesn’t mean any red lyrium is safe. I don’t even really know what it is, all I know is that it’s nasty shit.” 

Iron Bull stared at the statue, listening for any singing. There was none, though there was something uncanny about the statue’s screaming mouth. “If you’re worried about me, I haven’t heard any singing.” 

“Good, keep it that way,” Varric muttered. He looked up at Iron Bull, who stared balefully back down at the dwarf. “Look I’m not saying you’re crazy or anything like that, just-- you’ve been exposed to a lot of the stuff, and Qunari are pretty… dogmatic.” 

Bull didn’t look away from Varric. “The Qun is what kept me sane back at Redcliffe. For a year.” His gaze bored into Varric’s. “Of torture.” 

Varric, to his credit, didn’t back down or look away. He shrugged. “Then, consider it a friendly warning. And a creepy trip to check out what I keep in my basement.” 

“Yes,” Bull said, his eye flicking back to the screaming statue. “I can see that.” 

Varric swung the vault door closed, and the shadows closed up the horror within, leaving only normal torchlight. The steel door clicked several times, and then Varric spun the steel handle on the door until it clicked as well, sealing everything away. “Look, we got a lot of shit to get done,” the dwarf said. “I’ve got a letter to write for Leliana. Let’s just get out of here.” 

Iron Bull took one last look back at the sealed vault door, the tickle of nervousness rising in him.  _ Demons and darkspawn and weird magic shit. Great.  _

“Yes,” he said. “Lets.” 

Bull returned to his assigned room in the Viscount’s Keep, feeling irritated and out of sorts, not even bothering to close his door. His meeting with Gatt had proved frustrating, and Varric’s little show down below the Keep had been-- had been--

Enlightening. Horrifying. Also frustrating. 

He’d meant what he said. The Qun was what had kept him sane during all his time in the Redcliffe Dungeons. It was what had kept him from becoming like the Tal Vashoth of Seheron, just a mindless killer. That didn’t mean that Varric didn’t have a point. The red shit was clearly dangerous, and not to be messed with, and he’d been exposed for a long time. The thought that his mind could be taken over by it, that he could lose control--  _ that  _ was horrifying. 

He threw his traveling gear into his new traveling pack, bought just a few days ago at the market in Hightown. He didn’t have any of his old stuff, all of the gear that he had built up and liked. Good stuff. Possessions were just things under the Qun, to be used properly and discarded when needed, but he’d built up a good collection. 

_ Fucking ‘Vint assholes.  _

“Oh good, you’re here.” 

Bull turned around, to see Dorian leaning in the open doorway. He scowled. The mage had proved a thorn in his side over their two weeks in Kirkwall, always needling with too pointed questions. He was a Tevinter peacock, all full of flash and arrogance, both attractive and smart but not nearly as much of both as he  _ thought _ he was. And normally Bull kind of liked it, or at least got an amusement out of needling the man back, but not today. 

“What?” Bull growled. 

Dorian seemed taken aback. “Tetchy, today, are we?” 

“It’s not been a very good day,” Bull grumbled, glancing guiltily at Dorian.  _ He  _ hadn’t actually done anything, nationality aside. If he couldn’t hate Krem for his heritage, well-- he couldn’t exactly justify hating Dorian for it either. The Qunari sighed. “Come in. What is it?” 

Dorian stepped into the room, cautious, carrying a folded piece of parchment. “I just finished writing down a list of books  to look for in Starkhaven,” he said. “They’re closer to the Tevinter border, so a few things might have appeared there that haven’t made it to Wycome.” 

Bull could not help but notice that, though he offered the piece of paper, he had not crossed the room. 

“Hand it here,” Bull said, waving Dorian over. “I’ll look for them.” 

Dorian crossed the room and handed over his list-- Bull cracked it open, seeing an extensive list of titles in ostentatious handwriting-- still wearing that trepidation openly on his face. One of the things that Bull did appreciate about Dorian, especially after living amongst spies for so long. He didn’t try to hide his feelings.

Dorian stopped at the door and turned back, deliberately raising his chin. There was the traces of the magister in him. “Listen, Bull, I know that I’m a  _ ‘Vint _ and a mage and-- well-- you don’t much like me and, believe me, the feeling is mutual enough--”

Bull raised one eyebrow, surprised. “Did I say that?” 

Dorian paused, flustered. “Not in so many words, no.” 

Bull snorted. “I like you just fine, Dorian,” he said. “There’s a lot of other ‘Vints worth hating more than you and you’ve had my back in more than a few fights. I like just about anyone who can do that.” 

Dorian blinked, taken aback. Now  _ that  _ was an intriguing expression, one that Bull found he enjoyed more than he would have expected. “Huh,” he said, eyeing Bull contemplatively. “I would have imagined you’d prefer me bound and leashed.” 

“I’d buy you dinner first,” Bull cracked, before he could think better of it. Dorian flushed crimson, all the way up to his chin, and gripped the doorframe. He glared. Bull winked. 

“ _ Vishante kaffas _ ,” Dorian swore, shaking his head. “I only wanted to say-- you’ve saved my life a time or two, and you’ve saved Ayla’s life, and-- I’d be very disappointed if you went and died, you big lummox.” 

Bull laid a hand over his heart. “I’m touched,” he said. And despite his jesting tone, he actually did feel a bit of warmth in his chest. 

Dorian rolled his eyes, and fled the room. Bull closed the door after the mage, sighed, and resumed packing. Perhaps not such a bad day after all. 


	15. Confluence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events at the Winter Palace draw attention from all corners of the world.

Her son played in the freshly fallen snow, while Morrigan watched.

She frequently felt guilty as a mother. Kieran was by necessity a solitary child, one whose friends had been few and far between. That his nature matched this necessity was a blessing. He often seemed-- _apart_ from other children. Another consequence of her meddling, most likely. At times she felt that she spoke not to a child but instead to the second, older soul that had been bound into him from his very conception.

Other times she saw only the child she had borne, and loved.

He seemed but a normal child now, shaping sculptures out of the snow, a task which he executed with dogged effort. He had shaped several birds and what seemed a dog from the fresh fallen powder and was now balling up big piles of it between the archways for some other fantastical creature.

Morrigan smiled to herself.

Her younger self would scoff at the joy that Kieran brought to her. Such a foolish notion, to think that she could become a mother as she had planned, and yet remain unattached. Some mothers could. Flemeth had, and perhaps it was to spite her that Morrigan could not. She had loved the boy from his birth and, though she had conceived a difficult road for him, frequently thought only of what was best for him. She had resolved herself to one thing: that she would not be the mother that Flemeth was to her.

Brialwyn had laughed when she had seen it, and teased Morrigan. Morrigan’s first friend, perhaps her only friend. Strange to think that fate had brought them together again.

“He is a remarkable child.”

Morrigan turned to the elf who had just joined her. He was not her commander, for he did not command her, and he was not her employer, for she was not being paid. Rather he had gathered a small band of people here, and led their decision making as they all worked against Corypheus. Bald as a nug, he wore armor and a pelt slung over his shoulder, and walked with a bearing befitting of the name he had assumed.

Morrigan inclined her head, respectfully. “Dread Wolf. I thought you dreaming.”

She had grown used to the elven mage’s penchant for walking the Fade as often as he could. A useful thing, for a mage who could navigate its impenetrable paths safely. He obviously felt he could. It allowed him to speak over long distances, for those who could receive the message.

“I was,” Fen’harel confirmed. “Something has happened that you should know.”

Morrigan glanced back towards Kieran, still piling snow into great heaps between the archways of the forgotten keep that they had made their temporary home. It had already grown by another few inches at least.

“Your son will be safe, Lady Morrigan,” Fen’harel said, following her glance. “There are scouts watching this place.” He inclined his head towards the wall, where an elven woman in armor stood guard. As she watched the woman turned, caught sight of Morrigan and her companion, and bowed her head.

Morrigan turned to her boy. “Kieran!” she called, and the boy looked up. “I shall be back. Play here a while longer.”

Kieran eyed the Dread Wolf for a long moment. Morrigan often wondered just what Kieran saw when he looked at the elven general, who called himself by the name of an ancient god. She had asked him once before, but Kieran had only answered, “He seems very old, mother.”

This was less than useful. Was it the perspective of a boy looking at an adult man, or the perspective of an ancient recognizing one of its own ilk? Thus far she could not get Kieran to say more.

Kieran waved. “Alright, mother,” he called back, and he resumed playing with the powdery snow.

“Keep your gloves on!” Morrigan admonished before she left. Kieran was fond of losing the woolen gloves she had provided him, and coming home with hands red and chapped from cold. It seemed he lived to vex her.

The Dread Wolf smoothed away a smile, though not before Morrigan caught sight of it. He was amused, then? Well, he was not Kieran’s parent and not responsible for ensuring that he did not freeze.

She followed him inside the keep, which had seen reconstruction as of late to make it inhabitable, especially as winter set in. Flames roared in newly cleaned fireplaces, set and maintained by magic. These elves who the Dread Wolf had gathered-- a smattering of Dalish clans, the last scattered vestiges of ancient Elvhenan awakened after their millenia of sleep, the elves who had fled from Orlais, and scattered others-- did not shy from magic out of religious superstition. It was eminently sensible.

“Your son,” the Dread Wolf said suddenly. “He contains a second soul, congruent with his own, does he not?”

Morrigan had to fight to keep her steps even, for the fear that seized her heart. They had amassed ancient power aplenty, in their fight against the risen Tevinter magister. Did he mean to seize the power inside Kieran also? Should she run back to the courtyard now, in case of a kidnapping?

“He does,” Morrigan said cautiously. “As he has since before his birth.”

The Dread Wolf nodded. “I thought as much. I could not be certain while my power remained weak.”

Morrigan breathed out slowly. He had guaranteed her son’s safety. Ancient trickster of Dalish legend or not, she did not think he would harm her son after that. “Do you mean to take the power that he carries to use against Corypheus?”

The Dread Wolf shook his head. “No,” he said, and Morrigan believed him. He looked disturbed by the question, though Morrigan thought it a fair one. In his place, she would consider using all power at her disposal. “Not unless it was necessary, and then only if I could extract the second soul without harming the boy. It was only curiosity.”

“Well, consider your curiosity sated,” Morrigan said acidly.

The Dread Wolf nodded, almost as if he would acquiesce, only to ask, “Your mother’s doing, I take it?”

Morrigan narrowed her eyes at the armored elf, irritated by this line of questioning. “‘Twas her idea, but ‘twas my doing. Flemeth has never known her grandchild, nor do I mean her to.”

“Nor will she, I suppose,” the Dread Wolf said, something strange in his eyes. Morrigan’s annoyance only grew. Did he know something that he would not speak of? She had run up against the Dread Wolf’s aggravatingly cryptic nature more than once.

She had asked the woman known now to the world as Hero of Ferelden to go to the Korcari Wilds and kill Flemeth once. Brialwyn Mahariel had gone and returned with tales of success, but Morrigan knew better than to believe her mother vanquished. Flemeth was too crafty and too ancient to die so easily, even at the hands of the Hero of Ferelden. Rather Morrigan had considered the attempt a final severing of ties between she and her mother, one that Flemeth had not yet transgressed.

“Does this mean I am now free to be as nosy as you?” Morrigan snipped at her companion. “You still have not told me whether or not you are a god.”

The Dread Wolf raised one eyebrow. “Would my answer change what you believe?”

“No,” Morrigan admitted. More likely it would change whether she thought him deluded with grandeur. She raised her chin haughtily. “I do not believe that you are a god.”

“Then you are doubtless correct,” the Dread Wolf said, unaffected by Morrigan’s disbelief. “A god that is not believed in can scarcely be called a god, now can it?”

Morrigan had no time for a rejoinder, as they had reached the ancient circular room that had served as their meeting hall. She glared at the Dread Wolf’s back as he proceeded past her into the room.

She did not believe in his divinity, no, but she would be a fool to underestimate his power and knowledge. She had seen evidence of a power beyond that of normal mages. That and the knowledge that he was the best hope of stopping Corypheus, who would devour the world in his search for godhood of his own, was enough to keep her here. She had run across Agents of Fen’harel in the Crossroads, while fleeing from the Orlesian court as it burned, and had joined with them out of mutual convenience. They provided sanctuary for her and her son, and Morrigan provided them with the knowledge she had gained over her years of study. She was the one who had led the Dread Wolf to Mythal’s temple and to the ancient elves still sleeping there.

Morrigan followed Fen’harel into the meeting hall.

She was the only human present. Briala of Halamshiral nodded as Morrigan passed, for they had both served at the amusement of Empress Celene, before the Empress was assassinated. Abelas, Seneschal of Mythal’s Temple, waited with his characteristic stoicism. Velanna, vicious and proud, presented Morrigan with her customary dirty look that Morrigan ignored. Keeper Alrith of Clan Thelassan she recognized. His counterpart Keeper Ghela was currently missing, away on a mission of her own. So too was the only one of their fellowship Morrigan knew well and genuinely liked. Brialwyn Mahariel was scouring the eastern reaches of Thedas for any clues on how to break the stranglehold Corypheus held over the Grey Wardens.

At the corner of the room lurked the spirit masquerading in human form which called itself Cole. Morrigan glanced at the spirit but did not acknowledge it. She was not fool enough to think that spirits were things to be feared as the Chantry did, but neither was she required to relax her own vigilance.

Fen’harel walked among them all like a centerpoint around which the rest spun. Even Morrigan had found herself wrapped up in the so-called god’s orbit, following his orders and advancing his agenda. She was no faithful sycophant, but neither did he require it of any of them.

It reminded her in some ways of meeting and traveling with Brialwyn Mahariel. She had been pursuing her own agenda then, ensuring that all of the South would not be swallowed up by Blight and that the soul of the Old God who perpetuated it could be preserved. She had nonetheless found herself swept up in that conflict too, in a way that had surprised her. She did not trust Fen’harel in the same way as she had Brialwyn, but the feeling of being trapped by the tide of great happenings was the same.

“Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” Fen’harel said quietly, acknowledging each of them with a nod. “I know you are all very busy, so I will endeavour to keep this brief. Sylvas, who was sent to the palace at Halamshiral, has been captured. The magister who meant to make an alliance between Corypheus and Tevinter is dead in an attack on the palace.”

Briala, whose agents remained scattered throughout the remnants of the Orlesian Court, nodded. “My agents confirm that he was in the Winter Palace on the night of the attack and has not been seen since. The attack on the Winter Palace came as a complete surprise to all of us. It seems to have been perpetuated by a band of mercenaries who snuck into the Winter Palace.”

They had all known about the meeting at the Winter Palace for weeks now, as the Venatori scrambled to plan for such an event. They had deemed it too risky to sabotage, especially when any alliance could be unraveled in other ways, but it had been important to send a spy.

“So,” Velana said, with her characteristic bellicose tone. “Is your spy rotting away in some Venatori cell? Do we now conspire to spring him from captivity?”

The Dread Wolf shook his head. “I apologize. I have reason to believe that he was not captured by the Venatori, but rather by the rebels who struck the Winter Palace. They did so in conjunction with the woman once called the Herald of Andraste.”

“How is that possible?” Keeper Alrith asked. “The Herald of Andraste is dead, and the remnants of the Chantry already move to cover up the fact that an elf was ever raised so high.”

“The Herald was never confirmed dead,” Morrigan interjected.

“Then where has she been all this time?” Velanna asked, green eyes flashing with challenge at Morrigan. “I haven’t seen her step up to help us. We could have used the power of her mark to close the Breach instead of nearly killing ourselves over it.”

“The Venatori reports my agents have intercepted indicate that a woman was at the Winter Palace,” Briala said with a shrug. “The Venatori believe she has the same power as the Herald of Andraste, something called the Anchor.”

“It is the same power,” the Dread Wolf said, a furrow between his brow that Morrigan could not place. “The power that the Herald of Andraste carries has… distinct echoes in the Fade. Whether the person bearing it is the same or not--” and the Dread Wolf’s frown deepened, Morrigan noted with interest, “it is of great interest to Corypheus which means it is of utmost importance to us.”

“Then this power must be protected,” Abelas said, the first the ancient elf had spoken during their entire discussion. To Morrigan he seemed out of step with the modern elves the Dread Wolf had gathered around him. Fascinating, though taciturn, especially with a human mage. “At all costs.”

“Discreetly,” Fen’harel said, with a nod. “The Herald of Andraste is Dalish after all.”  A smile touched his lips, self-deprecating and melancholy, that had Morrigan frowning suspiciously. The Dread Wolf had made considerations for the religious superstitions of the Dalish before, but never with such emotion. “She may not wish to accept help from Fen’harel.”

“Then we shall do so,” Briala said simply. “Not all of our agents know who they work for, but they will understand the importance of protecting the Herald’s magic. Though to protect the Herald we must first find her.”

“Simple enough,” the Dread Wolf said. “I believe we must start our search in Kirkwall.”

\--

Sylvas’ cell was better furnished than it had been yesterday, Ayla noticed as she and Merrill continued down the hall. Leliana had somehow secured real pillows and heavier blankets and a candle and a few books. Looking at the titles they were all tomes about leatherworking and Ayla wondered if he had requested books on that subject or if they were the only things on offer. Near the bottom of the stack Ayla saw that Varric had somehow snuck in a copy of his Hard in Hightown serial.

Sylvas set down one of the leatherworking books at the sound of the two elves approaching. His eyes focused on Ayla. “You’re back,” he said. “And you brought a friend.”

Merrill raised her hand and wiggled her fingers eagerly. “Hi, I’m Merrill,” she introduced herself eagerly, eyes wide. “Do you _really_ work for Fen’harel?”

That question seemed to take Sylvas by surprise, for he took his time in answering. “I told your spymistress as much, didn’t I?” he said, squinting suspiciously at Merrill. “Whether or not she believed me, that I have no control over.”

“It is a little unbelievable,” Ayla pointed out. “Are you sure he’s a god and not just a powerful mage pretending to be a god?”

“Have you seen any dogs around him?” Merrill asked, referring to an old Dalish tale of Fen’harel and the mabari. “How do dogs react to him?”

Sylvas frowned, confused. “I’ve seen no dogs,” he said, puzzled. “Though wolves do not fear him, and will approach him in the wild.”

Ayla and Merrill exchanged a look. That the Dread Wolf might have a kinship with normal wolves made a certain sense, although the proof wasn’t definitive by any means.

Sylvas shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve served Magisters and seen powerful mages,” he said. “Fen’harel is different.”

Ayla peered through the bars of the cell, trying to put aside her innate skepticism for the moment. “Different how?”

“He knows things no mortal mage could know, things of the past. He wears the Fade about him like a cloak of power. He carries himself differently from any elf on Thedas-- Dalish, alienage elf or Tevinter slave alike.” Ayla felt a prickle at the back of her neck at Sylvas’ apparent certainty. “He has been sleeping since the fall of Arlathan, and awakened to this world only recently.”

Since the fall of _Arlathan_ ? Over three thousand years of sleep, if the stories were correct and the fall of Arlathan coincided with the coming of the _shemlen_. Long enough that, compared to her twenty-nine winters the span of time seemed unfathomable. How must their world look to a being so ancient? Elves enslaved and oppressed and pushed to the margins of the map, living lives that must seem so short and fleeting. Empires risen and fallen and the shape of the world changing by the year.

“Not cackling in some far off corner of the world, mad with glee at his own trickery?” Merrill asked, and when Sylvas peered at her she shrugged. “It’s what all the old stories say happened.”

Sylvas frowned. “I don’t know,” he said. “Though I… do not think so. It doesn’t sound like him.”

“Hm,” Merrill said, taking in this revelation. “ _Did_ he seal the Creators in the Beyond?”

“He calls them the Evanuris,” Sylvas said. “But yes.”

“The Evanuris?” Ayla asked, trying out the unfamiliar word on her tongue. It matched no roots or known words in Ancient Elven that she knew, but nonetheless her hair raised at the invocation of the word. As if something, or someone, watched and waited. “They were the gods of Ancient Arlathan?”

“So it seems,” Sylvas said. “Gods, and also tyrants if what Fen’harel says of the past is true.”

Ayla’s eyes narrowed. “Which it very well might not be,” she said cautiously. How wise would they be to believe second-hand the words of an ancient trickster such as the Dread Wolf?

“Who is to say,” Sylvas said, with an uncaring shrug. “He helped me to escape from slavery, and many others. He seems to care about ending slavery in the world here and now-- should I assume that it is a new passion, or would it make more sense that if the Dread Wolf cared about it now he might care about it then?”

Merrill’s eyebrows shot up. “Slaves?” she asked, dismayed. “In Arlathan?”

Ayla’s stomach knotted up with tension, for all of the stories she had ever heard of Ancient Arlathan were that it was a paradise beyond measure for all Elvenkind. That the coming of humans had despoiled the ancient city and brought aging and death to the immortal elves, who had only submitted to slavery with the coming of Ancient Tevinter.

Could there have been a time when they were no better than their ancient enemy?

“Indeed,” Sylvas answered Ayla’s unspoken thought. “Those marks you both bear, that the Dalish call vallaslin, are remnants of that ancient time. A noble would use the vallaslin to mark a slave he kept.”

Ayla was sure she felt the world spin full in a circle, for she was suddenly dizzy. She reached up, her fingers instinctively tracing Mythal’s tree, etched by blood into her brow bone. Her skin felt numb where her fingers touched it.

“How can you mean that?!” Merril was asking from somewhere far away, high pitched and harsh. “The vallaslin aren’t--the vallaslin can’t be-- that’s an _awful_ thing to say!”

“I’m sorry,” Sylvas said quickly. “I didn’t mean to cause you distress, only to answer your question.”

An ancient sorrow for all the years and generations of Dalish passing down the remnants of such cruelty filled Ayla up to the brim, threatening to overwhelm her. “So this is-- what? Just a mistake, something the Dalish got wrong for thousands of years?”

Sylvas frowned uncomfortably. “Fen’harel sought to free his people from slavery to their own gods,” he said. “And now he seeks to free the People of this time from slavery to a Tevinter magister-- whether human or Darkspawn.”

“Thus, Corypheus,” Ayla said simply.

Sylvas nodded.

“Leliana--” Ayla found herself saying, though she felt off balance. “Our spymaster wants an alliance. Fen’harel is fighting Corypheus, and so are--”

“No.”

Ayla raised her eyebrows, surprised by the flat refusal. “He won’t consider an alliance?”

“Not with your spymaster.” Sylvas studied Ayla carefully. “With you, however-- with that mark on your hand… That is a different matter.” Ayla clutched her left hand closer, flexing her fingers over the mark that had branded her Herald of Andraste, the cursed thing that had first landed her in Alexius’ path and then in Corypheus’, the one thing that set her apart from every other being on Thedas. It ached, as it always did. And now the mark, like a beacon in the night, had drawn the gaze of the Dread Wolf.

Perhaps it truly was a curse.

Merrill looked at her, eyes still wide and reflecting the torchlight. “Ayla?” she asked, concerned.

“I’ll--” Ayla’s mouth was dry as paper. “I’ll let Leliana know.”

They left the guard barracks quickly, only stopping to let Leliana know that Sylvas was open to the idea of an alliance-- with Ayla. Leliana tapped her forefinger against her lips, considering the offer. 

“Would you be amenable to an alliance?” she asked, considering Ayla with her sunken eyes. “If it is offered. This Dread Wolf is your god, after all.” There was no accusation in Leliana’s gaze, but Ayla felt it all the same. The weight of what she had been through, what they were trying to do. 

Ayla could not jeopardize that, even if it put her in the Dread Wolf’s path. She nodded slowly. “Yes. If it will stop Corypheus, if it will end this madness-- yes, I would make the alliance.” 

Leliana dismissed the two Dalish elves, who walked side by side in silence. A million thoughts and more consumed Ayla, all jumbled together and confused. She was not ready to believe wholeheartedly, but Sylvas’ testimony was hard to ignore. The spy was convinced, if nothing else, of the validity of his own allegiances. And it was true that Fen’harel-- god or not-- had sealed the Breach. That alone was compelling. 

“Creators,” Merrill breathed, cutting through Ayla’s tangling thoughts. “Or-- perhaps I shouldn’t swear by them, if they kept our people as slaves.” She frowned, puzzling over this newest development. 

Ayla had forgotten about that, in the face of everything else. If true, it was monumental. “Perhaps-- perhaps there’s a better explanation. I am not ready to trust every word out of the Dread Wolf’s mouth just yet.” 

Merrill closed her eyes, overcome by pain. “It would make sense of a few of the ancient things I’ve studied,” she said. “A few things the-- a few things I learned when working on the Eluvian.” 

It hit Ayla like a kick in the chest. Their most ancient tradition, tainted by the blood and misery of millions. The Creators, her people's gods, no better than the magisters of Tevinter. “Oh.” 

“The People need to know,” Merrill said, her lips held tightly together. “Something this important-- we can’t keep it from them.” 

Ayla shook her head, wondering how her clan would react when she told them. Keeper Deshana would insist on proof. The rest-- they would accuse her of listening to  _ shemlen  _ lies, or worse the Dread Wolf. “The People wouldn’t believe it, not easily. And it might only cause them more pain.” 

“We should still tell them,” Merrill said hotly. “And least then they would know, whether they believe it or not!” 

“If we present it gently, perhaps...” Ayla started to say, but she stopped short when a door in front of them opened and Hawke and Fenris stepped out. At first they didn’t notice Ayla and Merrill, heads bent together in quiet conversation, but they both looked at the sound of footsteps. 

Merrill froze to the spot. 

“Merrill!” Hawke said brightly, smile forming on her expressive face. 

Merrill had gone pale, and was staring at Fenris. Her shoulders shook, and her wide eyes filled with tears. Fenris frowned, brows drawing together with suspicion. Hawke glanced bewildered between the two of them, as Merrill continued to stare at Fenris, covered in lines of white lyrium. 

_ Slave markings.  _ Dorian’s voice echoed from just that morning.  _ The work of a magister. _

“Creators,” Merrill said, voice cracking. “I am so sorry.” She broke past Hawke and Fenris at a run. 

Hawke twisted, reaching out as if she might catch her. “Merrill, wait!” she called down the hall. “What’s wrong?” She turned back to Ayla, suspicion overtaking her confusion. “Did something happen?” 

There was no way to explain it, not with the revelation so raw. “It’s been a difficult morning. She just needs time, I think.” 

Hawke did not look convinced, but Ayla did not wait for her to ask more questions. She followed Merrill’s path, brushing past the Champion and her elven lover, making for the room she had been given as fast as she could. It was no quiet forest where she could go to quiet her thoughts, but it was private. There she sat on the bed with her legs drawn up to her chest, feeling more out of place than she had before, wondering what she would tell her clan when she saw them. 

\--

Magister Livius Erimond struggled up the stairs of the Winter Palace, cursing as he did so and favoring his left leg. He had not expected the Herald of Andraste to be so strong, to shake off his control of the Anchor so easily. Even after healing his leg still ached from being thrown so unceremoniously across the floor.

And now he had the unenviable task of telling his master that their alliance with Tevinter was murdered in its infancy by the girl Corypheus feared enough that Alexius ripped open time itself in order to be rid of her. He sat at his desk, eased a cramp in his leg.

Corypheus would find somehow, there was no doubt about that.

Erimond cleared the top of his desk and set the sending crystal in the center of the desk. He reached out with a drop of magic and activated the crystal. It began to glow, and miles distant its counterpart resonated with magical energy.

“Magister Erimond?” said the Templar knight whose visage appeared in front of him. “The Elder One has been expecting your call.”

“I am at the Elder One’s disposal,” Erimond said, with a bow of his head and a touch of annoyance at being required to wait. The waiting gave just enough time for the sweat to bead on his brow, for the nervousness to creep up the back of his neck.

At last the Elder One appeared, his scarred and twisted face flickering in the light from the crystal. “Livius. I have been expecting you.”

Erimond bowed his head. “Yes, Elder One,” he said. “I am afraid I bring bad news.”

“Yes, I am curious how a single band of mercenaries managed to infiltrate the Winter Palace and kill the Tevinter Ambassador.” Erimond winced. So the Elder One had heard after all. “Yes, news of your incompetence has not escaped me. The last we spoke, you had all but assured me of the alliance with Tevinter.”

Erimond went hot. “It’s not my fault, Elder One,” he protested. “Those mercenaries were led by the former Herald of Andraste. She killed Magister Marcius and sabotaged the alliance, and she was the one who killed Alexius.”

Corypheus’ expression was impossible to read, whether good or bad. Erimond took two, three shallow breaths.

“This is momentous news, Livius,” Corypheus spoke at last, thoughtfully. “Continue sending slaves southward. Anything else, all those forces you have devoted to playing Orlesian politics, you will send after this so-called Herald. Every Venatori in the North will know to search for her. You will find her and you will bring her to me. Alive.”

Erimond bowed deeply. “As you command, Elder One.”


	16. The Space Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ayla speaks with Solas about the truth of the vallaslin, and departs Kirkwall for Wycome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this as it updates, you may benefit from going back to Chapter 15, as I've expanded on one scene there. Additionally, I've gone back and cleaned up a few errors (what do you mean Ostwick and Wycome aren't the same city?). Thank you to everyone who is reading and enjoying this story!

Ayla knew she was dreaming, the moment she opened her eyes. Everything had the flavor of being not entirely real. The sunlight shining off the waves was too bright, the rocky beach too warm. Even the sea-salt taste of the wind whipping her hair into a mess was just slightly wrong.

She remembered this day with near perfect clarity. This was the day she had left her clan behind to travel south, a day that had been unusually cheerful for the usual tempestuous Waking Sea. Keeper Deshanna had stood just over there, atop that bluff, and asked Ayla if she was sure that she wanted to do this. Clan Lavellan could learn what decision the  _ shemlen _ Chantry made in other ways. Ayla hugged the older woman, reassured her that she knew what she was doing, and then she walked alone from this beach to the harbor at Ostwick, to observe the Conclave. 

Keeper Deshanna must think her disciple dead, Ayla thought. The rest of Thedas thought she was dead. 

What would she think of Ayla, appearing out of time with tales of the Dread Wolf on her lips and a scar of the Fade on her hand? 

Ayla examined her own hand, as she had done many times before. The mark flickered with a dormant green fire, ready to spring to life at her calling. She was growing familiar with the rhythms of the mark, how to draw on its power when she needed. At the Winter Palace she used it to tear apart the Tevinter ambassador, separating him between Fade and the material world. 

She was in the Fade only in her dreams. Even still she could feel the power of the Anchor. The power of the Fade flowed into it, eddied around it. 

There was no footfall on the sand, no rustle of scrub brush to mark the presence, but Ayla knew the moment she ceased to be alone in the dream. She looked up and there Solas was, on a bluff where Keeper Deshanna had stood on a day long ago. 

He picked his way carefully down the bluff. Here he did not wear the tattered robes he had worn in Haven. Rather he was dressed in light and loose linen trousers and shirt, caught by the sea breeze and blown against his slight form. 

He stopped at the foot of the bluff, leaving Ayla to close the distance. She slipped her arms around his waist, tucked her head under his chin. Solas held her carefully, gently. His fingers combed through her hair.

“Thank you,” Ayla murmured, her lips pressed into the softness of Solas’ shirt. “For being here.” 

Solas brushed back Ayla’s hair, dark tendrils sliding over his slender fingers, concern writ on his face. “There is something troubling you, vhenan.” He said it as a statement of fact, not as a question. Was she so transparent? “The Fade reflects your distress.”  

Ah, of course. Not that she was ever able to hide anything from him. 

“The longer I stay here in this time, the more confused I get,” Ayla confessed. She leaned into Solas’ hands in her hair, the first thing today that felt right. “I feel like I can’t tell up from down any more.” 

“Perhaps it will help to talk about. Though I cannot promise satisfactory answers.” 

Ayla smiled, warm. “You’re here, that’s already plenty,” she said. She would have been content just to be held for a time, and perhaps have her worries kissed away. Having a listening ear was better. “We spoke to the spy that we captured today, the one I told you of before.” 

“The one in the service of Fen’harel?” 

Ayla nodded. “The very one.” 

The way Solas looked at her, so soft with a hint of concern, was enough to bring her knees to jelly. “What did you hear from this spy that so distressed you,  _ vhenan _ ?” 

“That we were wrong,” she said, voice breaking over the words. “For thousands of years, the Dalish were wrong. Our gods, the very ones we worship, were no better than the magisters of Tevinter. And they marked us, for their use.” She drew her fingers down her forehead to the base of Mythal’s tree on her brow. 

She had come of age at seventeen. Young, but already strong in her magic, and Keeper Deshanna wanted her to train as the clan’s Second. There were rivers aplenty in the land surrounding Wycome, but on that day they were close to the shore, so Ayla made her way to the coast and completed her reflection drenched in the surf of the Waking Sea. With the beat of each wave she reflected on the ancient history of her people, letting it sink into the core of her own self. Perhaps that was why she had chosen Mythal, protector and guide to all the People, who it was said walked out of the sea. Like Mythal, Ayla would protect and guide her people. 

When the tattoos were complete, her skin sore and red, her heart swelled nearly to bursting with her own pride, reflected only by the pride of all her clan. Now that same heart was breaking, and she could not hold it together. 

“He told you this?” Solas’ face was drawn with a dark fury. 

“I might not have believed him. I might have thought his tale the lie of the trickster. Only…”

Solas’ fury passed, subsiding in his sea of calm. “Only?” 

“Merrill confirmed it,” Ayla said. “She has made a study of our People’s history, she is the one who unlocked the Eluvian and… she believes it. So I do as well.” It was as simple as that. For all the Dread Wolf’s lies, she believed in Merrill and her knowledge. “I have to tell my clan. They deserve the truth of our history. Only I don’t know how, and… I am afraid.”

She laughed, a tiny thing, and it eased some of the pain in her chest. Enough to take a small breath. 

Solas brushed his thumbs under Ayla’s eyes and they came away wet. Her tears, she thought. She had not even realized she was crying. 

“Of course you are,” Solas said, soft with understanding. “They are your people, your family. Of course you would fear their censure and rejection, should you tell them the truth.” 

Ayla mopped her face with the back of her hand, though her face was still hot with tears. “I must tell them,” she said. “I won’t keep the truth from them, even if they think me mad or possessed. I just don’t know how.” 

Solas laughed, startled. Before Ayla could protest his mirth, he drew her mouth to his. “I am sorry,  _ vhenan _ ,” he said. “It is only-- I think I forgot, in your absence, how remarkable you truly are.” 

Ayla frowned, puzzled. 

“Would it surprise you to learn that I knew already the true nature of the vallaslin?” 

Ayla opened her mouth, startled, confused. Furious, for a moment, that he knew and never told her. A flaring ember, quick to ignite and just as quick to cool. What guarantee had he that she would have listened? She said herself she might not have. 

“Once I learned it, I tried to pass the knowledge along to Dalish clans I encountered. They all refused to believe, and afterwards they would attack, or have me run off as a madman. One clan made the journey to a nearby city to warn the local Templars of a dangerous apostate.” 

Ayla flushed, furious with the clan who would involve  _ shemlen _ , let alone Templars, in their dispute with one of their own kind. “That was terrible!” she said hotly. 

“I was speaking truths they did not want to hear,” Solas said, without rancor. “I soon grew tired of the disbelief, of the suspicion. Let the Dalish live with their markings, no matter how cruel their origins, for they have no desire to listen.” Solas closed his eyes, breathed deep. Opened them again, and his admiration was clear. Again, Ayla felt pinned to the spot. “Yet you see the truth so clearly, even though it originated from the mouth of your People’s ancient enemy. You mean to weather your People’s scorn to give them the truth.” 

Ayla shrugged. The weight of the admiration in Solas’ eyes had her demurring. “I doubt they’ll believe me.” 

“That you would try at all makes all the difference.” Solas cupped Ayla’s face between his hands, pressed his lips flush to hers, filling her with his warmth. When he drew away there was that soft concern etched on his face once more. “I am sorry that you bear the burden of this knowledge.” 

Ayla raised her chin, defiant. “I’m not.” 

Solas raised his eyebrows. 

“I would rather know, even if the truth is terrible,” Ayla said. “Than be left in the dark forever.” 

Solas was silent for a long time at that. Long enough that Ayla wondered what he could be thinking, behind that inscrutable expression. “Trust your own heart and your own truths,  _ vhenan _ .” Solas’ mouth turned up in the very edge of a smile. “They will not guide you astray, I think. And your clan may take the news better than my experience would lead you to believe.” 

Ayla pressed her face into the fabric of Solas’ shirt again. It felt soft, even here in the Fade. It had that clean fabric smell about it, that reminded Ayla of the sails of aravels drying in the summer sun. “Thank you,” she said. Even as she leaned into the embrace, her mind ticked with curiosity that only grew with the sound of each wave against the shore. “Did you know it would be a beach?” 

Solas looked at her curiously. “No.” 

“Oh.” Ayla picked at the soft fabric of his shirt. “You dressed for the occasion.” 

Solas smiled, amused. Something indulgent in his amusement, as well. “This is the Fade. Here, reality is limited only by strength and will and imagination.” He closed his eyes, briefly, and the threadbare robes he customarily wore at Haven reappeared. “If you prefer it, I could appear more as you are used to.”

Ayla shook her head, flushing. “No,” she said. “Not that I mind the robes, but they are--”

Solas grinned. “Not fashionable?” 

Ayla returned the grin, a bit guiltily. “I don’t mind the robes,” she said loyally. “But it is different.” 

Solas’ form shimmered, as if heat rose up in the air around him, and the threadbare robes disappeared replaced by his outfit of loose linen. “I am more than happy to indulge your aesthetic sensibilities. If you have other requests--” 

Ayla laughed. “That’s quite alright.” She considered a moment, then grinned impishly. “Will and imagination, you said?”  Ayla closed her eyes and pictured her outfit from the last Arlathvhen. She focused on recalling the bright green and white of her dress, the prophet’s laurel braided through her hair, the airy texture of the wrapped skirt that seemed to float about her ankles. She pictured the Ironbark bracelets, polished so fine they caught the summer sun with every move of her arms, and the way the fabric folded in at the waist, so finicky when she was putting it together but worth all the effort once it was complete. 

Ayla’s eyes flew open. She could feel the light fabric, the change between the heavy layered robes provided to her in Kirkwall and the Arlathvhen dress, made to withstand an Orlesian summer heat. She spun and her skirt spun out with her, just as she remembered. She grinned, delighted with her own success. 

“Very impressive.” Solas smiled, amused and proud both. Ayla did not miss the way his glance lingered over the way the dress clung to her hips. She set her hand on her hip, the way some elf maidens did when they wished to draw the eye of a young hunter, and caught the way Solas’ lips parted just the slightest bit. 

“Like it?” 

“Very much so.” Again his eyes lingered, though he returned his gaze to her face. “I do not think I need to tell you things you already know, Ayla. Though if you seek compliments, I will happily give them.” 

Spoilsport. Ayla smiled anyways. “Sure,” she said lightly. “Compliment me.” 

Solas stepped closer, fingers brushing the ends of the vallaslin on her cheeks, the ones that she could not bring herself to imagine away. “You are very beautiful,” he said. “But I am more impressed that you mastered one of the subtler aspects of the Fade so easily, and on your first try no less.”

Ayla shrugged. “I am a mage. And I’ve been training for years-- not in this exact thing, true, but…”

Solas shook his head and said, “Most mages rarely get even this far in their mastery of the Fade. Those trained by the Chantry fear it. Others lack the strength of will, of imagination. It is a singular feat, and well done.” 

Ayla preened at the avid compliments. She had asked for Solas to compliment her, but she had no idea he’d do it so well. “Sweet talker.” She ran her fingers down the collar of his shirt, until they found the cleft of fabric where the skin of his chest showed through. “Will you show me something else?” 

“What do you wish to see?” 

Ayla thought for a moment. “A memory that you found in the Fade. Something nice.” She smiled. “One of your favorites.” 

“Hmm.” Solas appeared to think for a moment, and then the world-- the beach, the bluffs, the smell of brine on the wind-- all faded away and began to reform in new shapes and colors. “I saw a young Qunari in a simple kitchen, baking bread as she was ordered. In every loaf she broke the rules…”

\--

Ayla woke feeling more clear headed than she had in weeks. She quickly packed up all that she had gathered over the past few weeks in Kirkwall, the small pile of simple traveling clothes and packs, her tied bundles of herbs, the small number of precious lyrium potions from Hawke’s dwindling supply. At last the room was bare of all her personal belongings, and Ayla bid it goodbye. She was not sad to see the last of those stone walls. 

She scavenged a quick breakfast from the kitchens. Leliana was already awake, sitting at a bench with a cup of tea and a sheaf of papers that she read over as she ate. She looked up when Ayla joined her, nodded, and went back to her reading. 

Leliana left before Ayla finished with her eggs and toast, with a curt, “I’ll see you in the mirror room.” Afterwards, she finished her breakfast listening to the steady morning sounds of the Keep’s kitchen preparing for the day. Afterwards she washed her plate in the large trough left for dishes, and made for the room with the Eluvian. 

Hawke intercepted her in the hall, tailed by a few feet by her yawning brother. The Champion waved and smiled widely at Ayla. “Ah! Just who I was hoping to find,” she said brightly. “I have a bit of a request before you leave.”

It must be the earliness of hour, that had Ayla wanting to sigh. Instead she turned to face Hawke. “Yes?” 

“Carver,” Hawke said, jerking her thumb behind her at her barely-awake younger brother, “would like to accompany you to Ostwick.” 

Ayla blinked at the Grey Warden warrior, whom she had never considered in much depth before. He appeared capable at least, though that was a bit offset by his blinking blearily at the sunshine through the Keep’s windows. She raised her eyebrows. “I see. It’s probably not going to be all that exciting, we’re just visiting my clan and the Ostwick library.” 

“Yes, but traveling any place these days is dangerous,” Carver said earnestly. “Especially three mages traveling alone. I know you’re all powerful, but if you run across a platoon of Red Templars…” 

“Oh.” Ayla frowned, thinking. “How likely do you think that is?” 

“I don’t know, but you shouldn’t take that chance. Now when you’re so… important, and everything. And I’ve spent quite some time in Ostwick. The Wardens were stationed there three years ago.” 

“Plus, Carver’s sweet on Merrill,” Hawke said, with a wicked crescent of a grin that only an older sister could wear with such aplomb. 

The younger Hawke went red under his armor. “I am n--!” He looked around at the servants bustling through the Viscount’s keep and whispered heatedly, “ _ I am not! _ ” 

Hawke’s playful smile got, if possible, even wider. “Hmmm?” She nudged Carver with her shoulder. “That’s not what I heard from Varric last week. Are you suggesting our wonderful city’s beloved Viscount could be wrong?” 

“Varric is a busybody and has too much time on his hands.” 

“That’s not a no, though.”

“I’m not answering that.” Carver crossed his arms over his chest and stepped almost full in front of Hawke, so that he blocked his sister from view. “I’d be asking this even if I wasn’t-- I mean even if Merrill didn’t-- look, do you want me along or not?” 

Ayla giggled at the younger brother, still furiously red and trying valiantly to look serious while simultaneously attempting to keep his older sister from speaking. She, for her part, kept dodging his attempts to muzzle her with his hand. It lifted her spirits to see. 

“Of course you can come along, we would be happy to have you.” Ayla said, before it turned into a tussle in the Viscount’s hallway. She could not wipe the grin from her face, though she tried valiantly to regain composure before she said, “I’m sure Merrill will _ appreciate _ your concern for our safety.” 

Carver went fully red and glared at Hawke. “This is your doing.” Then he turned his glare on Ayla. “And  _ you _ shouldn’t encourage her. I’m going to wait in the mirror room.” 

Ayla’s laughter was twinned with Hawke’s, as Carver stalked down the hall to the room where the eluvian was kept. His grumbling could be heard echoing from all the way down the hall. 

Once Ayla had caught her breath she found that Hawke was staring wistfully down the hall where her brother had gone. At Ayla’s questioning glance she shrugged and grinned helplessly. 

“I know I can’t keep him safe forever. Carver’s a man grown, and he has been for a while. But I’ll never stop seeing him as my younger brother who I need to protect - which is probably why he wants to leave the city so badly, come to think of it.” 

Ayla held Hawke’s gaze steadily. “I’ll make sure he stays safe. I promise.” 

Hawke smiled, though when she spoke it was choked. “Thank you. If he gets killed I’ll-- think up something very unpleasant, I’m sure.” She clapped Ayla on the shoulder. “Though I’m sure you’ll do fine-- just a quick trip to check on your family and grab a few books, yeah?” 

“Exactly.” Ayla smiled, though her stomach roiled with tension. She had no idea if her clan would even believe her wild story of her journey, let alone what she had learned since arriving in Kirkwall. 

She walked with Hawke into the mirror room, where Carver was waiting and Merrill was explaining to Leliana how to navigate the eluvians to arrive in Starkhaven where she could take boat to Nevarra. Dorian stumbled in at last, still half asleep and laden down with books. Ayla spied Alexius’ journal peeking out of his satchel. 

Hawke said her goodbyes to Merrill and Carver. As she did so, Leliana drew Ayla aside. 

“Be careful.” The bard set her hand on Ayla’s shoulder, her grip punishing and her gaze intense. In Leliana’s hollowed pale face it was a sight to see. “If Corypheus gets his hands on you, everything will be lost.” 

Ayla curled her fingers over the mark. She met Leliana’s gaze, resolute. “I won’t let him.” 

Leliana shook her head. “I know that you have every intention of not being captured by the Venatori,” she said, with frost in her tone that had Ayla shivering. “Intentions are lovely things, but as this world shows, they do not always bear out. If the worst happens and you are captured-- you may need to be prepared.” 

Ayla opened her mouth, horrified, at what Leliana was suggesting. She caught her breath. “What are you saying?” 

Leliana drew a locket from her bag and handed it to Ayla. When the clasp came unhitched, inside lay a small packet of herbs wrapped in cheesecloth. Ayla wrenched her gaze away from the tiny bundle of death in her palm. Leliana truly was serious. 

She closed Ayla’s fingers over the locket, which latched closed. “I’m saying that the fate of this world is more important than any one of us. I pray to the Maker and the Holy Andraste that you will never have to use it.” 

Ayla looped the locket around her neck. Leliana was too adamant, and Ayla understood that she was only looking out for her in her own harsh way. Still, she resolved never to use the tied packet. 

She hugged Leliana around the shoulders, still too thin. There was no stopping the bard’s determination. “Stay safe.” 

“You as well, Herald.” 

Merrill and Carver and Dorian all stood beside the mirror, ready to travel. Dorian yawned widely. Hawke waved farewell to all of them. 

Merrill spoke a few words to the mirror and the surface rippled and changed. She motioned for Ayla to lead the way. 

She stepped forward, and let the surface of the mirror ripple over her face as she stepped into another world. 

Navigating the crossroads took several hours of traveling a winding maze of paths, that seemed to turn and backtrack almost arbitrarily. They passed other eluvians, most dark and dormant, a few bright with active magic. 

“Where do those lead?” Ayla asked as they passed by a cluster of active mirrors. 

Merrill shrugged. “Somewhere in the Anderfels, I think? It’s hard to tell without a proper map. I’ve been trying to make one, though it’s very chaotic. Sometimes I get lucky and meet someone on the other end who knows where I am.” 

“So it’s entirely trial and error?” Dorian asked, now fully awake and fascinated by the space-in-between that made up the Crossroads, though he complained about the harshness of the light. “Isn’t that-- dangerous?” 

“Why should it be?” Merrill asked, taking another hairpin turn that climbed steeply towards another rocky outcropping. 

“What if you stumble into a Venatori camp? Or come out at the bottom of the ocean? Or a nest of varghests?” 

Merrill looked back at the Tevinter mage, puzzled. “They’re mirrors. They’ll  _ show _ you what’s on the other side if you know the trick to it. Here, look.” She stopped at one of the active eluvians further down the path and passed her hand over its shiny silver surface and spoke in Elven. The surface of the mirror shivered, as it did when it was first activated. “Look at it-- kind of from off to the side. Out of the corner of your eyes.” 

Carver, already standing adjacent to the mirror, frowned. Then he blinked, as if someone had shone light into his eyes. “Oh that’s-- that’s weird.” 

He moved aside, so Dorian could stand where he was and look. The mage glanced sidewise at the mirror and his eyebrows shot straight up. “Fascinating. I wonder how they managed that...?”

Ayla tried looking. It did require looking out of the corner of her eye, like she was trying to sneak up on a skittish halla without letting it catch on that she was looking, or when she was puzzling out enchantments in a piece of ironbark. When she did she saw a field of grass that seemed to go on forever under an enormous sky. Everything was tilted at a strange angle, so that the sky was not at the top of the mirror but rather dominated the leftmost edge. 

“I think the mirror on the other side of this one toppled,” Merrill said. “And nobody’s been by to set it right side up.” 

Ayla let the off-kilter gaze go, looking at the mirror straight on. Its opaque silver surface looked the same as always. 

“I’ve been exploring this network for two years, since I opened my eluvian. The one that Varric is borrowing,” Merrill explained, as she waved the group forward along the twisted and convoluted path. “It’s not  _ safe _ , exactly, but that’s not anything new. I’m more worried about who else might be using this network, than coming out someplace too dangerous.” 

Ayla scraped her teeth over her bottom lip anxiously. “Someone else-- like the Agents of Fen’harel.” Leliana had found Sylvas trying to activate the eluvian at Halamshiral, it stood to reason that the people he worked for knew all about them. 

“Let’s try not to run into them,” Carver said. “Even if they are against Corypheus, I don’t fancy tangling with fanatical elves following an evil Elven god.” 

“Fen’harel isn’t  _ evil,  _ exactly,” Merrill started to explain, and her explanation of the Dalish stories of Fen’harel lasted the next few twists and turns of the Crossroads. She told the stories well, Ayla thought. Merrill might have made an excellent Keeper, had she gotten the chance. 

They arrived at last at one mirror among many, in a large semicircle along the edge of a floating island. The rubble that had crumbled away was bright with the remains of ancient mosaics, long since lost. Merrill activated one of the eluvians and led them through. 

They stepped out onto a mountaintop. Barren and rocky at the top, it gave way to scrub and small trees a few hundred meters down. From this high up, more mountains could be seen for miles until they disappeared into the mists. On the other side, the Vimmark mountains faded away into low hills until they disappeared entirely in a tangle of rivers and estuaries and marshlands. 

Ayla knew this geography, intimately, from a different angle. It was like looking down on a map of a coastline that she had once mapped with her own feet. She looked up the coast a ways and saw, in miniature, a very familiar city nestled between two rivers and the coast. 

Wycome. 

Home. 


End file.
